


Life After Angels

by Bohemian_seahorse



Category: Rent (2005), Rent - Larson
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - RENT Fusion, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Roger Davis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Musicals, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, Slow Burn, bisexual mark cohen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 17:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28710285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bohemian_seahorse/pseuds/Bohemian_seahorse
Summary: Angel has died, leaving in her wake a trail of ruined relationships and broken hearts.Mimi is dating Benny, leaving a boyfriend who doesn't know what to do.Tortured by Angel's death and Mimi's absence, Roger leaves for Santa Fe, set on beginning a new life away from the memories.And Mark is left behind, repairing everything that's fallen apart and searching for Roger.One year. Measured in love, hate, and everything in between.
Relationships: (past), April/Roger Davis, Joanne Jefferson/Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen/Roger Davis, Roger Davis/Mimi Marquez, Thomas B. Collins/Angel Dumott Schunard
Comments: 19
Kudos: 11





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer - i do not own rent or any of its characters no matter how much i wish i did  
> personal disclaimer - i am not american so i'm apologising now if any of my representations of american culture are slightly off  
> your disclaimer - you do not have to enjoy my book but please comment if you do :'3  
> \- angel

Roger’s P.O.V

I need to get out of this place.

Mimi came to me last night. I couldn’t believe it when she told me it was all true.

The rumours about her and Benny have been in circulation for a while now. I ignored them. I've always ignored them.

But I can’t do that now.

Mimi came to me last night. She came and she told me that it was all true. 

I can’t unhear the words that came out of her mouth.

_“It’s true. The rumours. Benny was... he is... he supports me. He’s always there for me when no one else is. He cares about me, Roger. Can't you see that he’s trying to help me? I know you hate him, but he’s good for me.”_

And then there was my reply.

_“Mimi... no. You lied to me? You cheated on me? With Benny? The landlord. Who has a wife. Who will never love you like I do. Benny isn’t good for you; he’ll get bored and throw you out like he tried to throw me out of this flat.”_

Tempers flared quickly. 

_“You’re jealous! So what if I want something between me and Benny? He’s a nice man! Unlike someone I can think of!”_

I loved her still. I couldn’t face the fact she was seeing someone else behind my back. The girl had my heart in her hands, just as April did before her.

_“I’m not jealous! I’m just upset! Why didn’t you tell me?”_

And of course, she brought the illness into the argument.

_“You have enough to worry about. You don’t want to be stressed out over what could be the last few months of your life.”_

Mimi knew that the HIV was slowly killing me. She went to the doctor last time and heard him tell me that I didn’t have long left. She held my hand as I shook and asked if there was anything we could do. And as always, he told me that we couldn’t do anything without a cure.

It was Mimi’s illness too. We shared it with each other. We knew it would be our downfall, but we also knew we would tumble together.

_“Mimi please, I love you.”_

And the cold look in her eyes had been enough to freeze me in place, enough to hold steady the hand I had been reaching to her.

_“Do you? Do you really? Because, you know what Roger? I don’t think I've ever heard those words come out your mouth before. I’ve never once heard you tell me how you feel.”_

I didn’t cry. I just stood there. I watched as her eyes shone with fury and realised that she was right.

_“I can tell you! From now, I’ll always tell you. I love you Mimi Marquez. I’ve loved you ever since you first brought your goddamn candle into my loft. I've loved your brown eyes and soft hair since I first saw them under the moonlight.”_

Then she slapped me. She slapped my hand and pulled her body away from me. Her mouth formed the most distasteful snarl, and she whispered to me harshly.

_“It’s too late Roger. You can bury those feelings at the bottom of the ocean, because I don’t love you. Not anymore. Not now. Maybe you could’ve saved that, if you’d have opened up to me instead of locking your feelings away. But now I have someone who isn’t afraid to say he loves me, who isn’t scared of letting out his emotions. I love Benny now, not you.”_

I had to fight back the tears. I didn’t want my ex to see me cry. I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. I'd never wept in front of anyone before. I had a reputation to keep up. People thought I was strong. Mimi used to think I was strong. And before her, April used to think I was strong.

April was the reason for my short life expectancy. She was the one who shared the needle with me when we injected the substances into ourselves. She was the one who spread the disease to me. 

And then she died. I found her lying in her own blood in the bathroom, a note next to her that said, “We have AIDS.”

I stopped doing drugs. I found Mimi. She was in the same situation as me in terms of health. She was a pole dancer and heroin addict. She was beautiful.

_“See you around Roger. Maybe when we meet again, you’ll understand how to love.”_

And she walked out the door. I watched her go down the street, a thick coat pulled around her body. 

I started to strum, singing. The song I'd been searching for so long planting itself in my brain.

_“Who do you think you are? Leaving me alone with my guitar.”_

Mimi was the song. We were destined to fall out. Her leaving was meant to happen. As I saw her leave for the last time, the words were settled and clear in my head.

I don’t love Mimi anymore. My feelings died when she left me. It's been a week since then and this place is really getting to me.

I don’t leave the house. Mark tries to get me to go out to dinner with them. But I can’t. I don’t want to see their faces. Since Angel’s death, they’ve changed. 

Collins doesn’t smile anymore. All he speaks about is Angel. He shares all his best memories of her. And then he cries and I don’t know how to comfort him.

Maureen and Joanne are on bad terms. They either argue or just don’t speak to each other.

Angel really was the one holding us all together. Without her, no one remembers how to love. She kept the family alive. She knew the right things to say, what to do. She always had the answer.

Collins says that she’s still up there. I don’t think so. If she was, she would’ve done something to help us all by now. She wouldn’t be letting us suffer like this. She'd get me outside, get Maureen to apologise, get Mark to take a break, get Collins to move on from her.

Mark's the same as always. Hiding behind the camera. I hardly see him anymore. Since he was hired by Alexi, his work is priority. He doesn’t have the time for me.

I'm always inside, always alone.

I can’t be around them, knowing that two are missing. Knowing I sent one of them away. Knowing one of them is dead.

A meal with them means sitting at a table with four people trying to find things to talk about. Two of them avoiding each other, one crying and the other messing about with a camera. It's people who don’t know how to act, how to carry on without the leader. They’re careful when speaking, avoiding anything that may trigger memories.

They need Angel. We all do.

Angel was the best person I ever knew. She was confident and strong, but also kind. So nice to everyone, even those who were horrible to her. She faced so much discrimination. People didn’t understand her.

She was the first drag queen I ever met. I was confused at first, I'll admit even a little scared. But she was so nice. She answered every question I had. She explained it all. 

I can’t take any more of this place. 

Benny is waiting for our rent. Mark hasn’t earnt anything. Neither have I. I no longer have someone to get me through it.

I’ve had enough.

Everything is blowing up around me. I'm alone in the middle of a battlefield. My friends fight and wage war to win the right to love. I fight for money. I fight for this home. I fought for Mimi.

Now I fight for myself.

I can’t waste time looking out for others. Mimi showed me that. I’m the only one who counts. 

I’d be better off somewhere else. Somewhere I could start over again, live out my the last of my time in happiness. Don’t I deserve to relax before I die? 

All I'm getting here is stress. Needing to pay up to live. Trying to forget those who’ve been lost. Trying to stop missing those who walked out.

I fight for my path to light.

Angel is everywhere. When I look out the window, I see her drumming on the street. When I see Benny, I think of his dog Evita. Then I think of Angel driving said dog to suicide. And I laugh. I remember the way she burst into this room on Christmas Eve after finding Collins bleeding on the street. I remember when she dragged us all out to the life support meetings.

There are too many memories here. I need to get away from them.

Mimi follows me too. I see her buying smack down the alleyway. I see her leaving from the Cat Scratch Club, dressed in black leather and lace. I see her hair in the moonlight that makes its way into the loft.

I can’t escape the memories. They haunt me like a ghost, like I sometimes imagine Angel’s ghost does. It’s nice to picture her watching over me, real wings sprouting from her back, that gentle smile on her face, the warm glint in her eyes.

I pick up a piece of paper from the dresser.

_Sorry Roger. I won’t be home for dinner tonight again. Alexi’s got me working late. There's some stuff in the fridge, leave some for me, okay?_

_Mark_

I sigh. When will he see this job isn’t getting him anywhere? He’s being tricked. They're making him work late, and then not paying.

I drop the paper and look in the fridge. As I thought. More month-old frozen lasagne. I can’t eat that again.

The room feels so small around me. 

I need to run away from this dump.

Angel’s dead. Mimi’s gone. Mark's never home.

I'll go mad if I stay in New York any longer.

I need to go.

There's a pen on the side. I'll leave Mark a note. I'll tell him why I’m leaving. 

_Mark, I need to leave. This place is driving me crazy. It feels like I'm trapped. I need to go and get away from the memories. If I'm far away, maybe I'll stop seeing Angel and Mimi around me. Maybe I'll be able to forget about them. I don’t have long left and I need to spend that time living my life, not hiding in a loft. But I can’t stand to be around people I know. I need a fresh start, another try._

_I hope you understand._

_Your best friend,_

_Roger._

But where to? Somewhere far away. Somewhere different from here. 

I remember Angel and Collins’ dream about going out to Santa Fe. She never got to go there. Maybe I could for her.

Yes. But I can’t tell anyone. They'll come and bring me back. I need a break. I need to breathe.

I shove my guitar into a bag. The same guitar I used to play Mimi songs on. The guitar I accompanied Angel’s drums with. The instrument I played to get myself to sleep as a child. The only thing my parents gave me. My favourite thing in the whole world.

My hand slips a candle in without my brain even noticing. I see it lying on my guitar and throw it out. I'm going away to escape memories, not take them with me.

I pick up the bag and walk out the building, making towards the train station. I don’t even turn to see the house one last time. All I'd be able to see is the eviction posters in the window anyway. 

Maybe the next time Mimi sees me I will have learnt how to love.

But something tells me I'll be seeing Angel before her.

I take the detour past a house I'm all too familiar with and leave one more note in the window there. She'll see it, I know she will.

_Goodbye love._

_Roger Davis._


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the chapter summary is this book in a nutshell: roger is sad

Roger’s P.O.V 

“No. That’s not right.” I mutter under my breath, scribbling out the line I've written. I just can’t get this right. After Mimi’s song, I've not been able to find the perfect words for another one. It's like my brain’s got stuck.

I turn back the page. My eyes flash over the scrawl. My hand swoops down.

I tear out the piece of paper, the one with the words “Your Eyes” underlined two times at the top. The one I wrote for her. The only song I've ever completed.

I pull the sheet and scrunch it into a ball. My feelings for her are crushed with the paper in my hand. I wish I could burn it; watch the edges blacken and crumble to ash as the flame licks at the page of my confession, gradually being devoured and swallowed into nothingness.

I don’t read it. Just destroy. I know that my love for her is written on it. I know the messy font admits my feelings; the words my mouth was never able to say to her. The words that, if spoken, might have been enough to save our relationship. I know that reading it will only bring back memories, which in turn will bring back the blame I pile on myself for hurting her. 

I urge my fist to push harder. I picture Mimi’s face on the day she came to me – those brown eyes full of anger and tears – and clench my jaw tightly as I put all my strength into squashing it. My teeth grate together, making that annoying sound, and I throw the paper away from me in one frantic movement. I launch it like it’s something contagious, something that will cut deep into me and leave a scar. But I guess, in some ways it has. My heart will never be the same. My lips will never forget how natural the lyrics felt coming out of them. My body will never forget those gentle touches.

Someone shouts angrily from the front of the bus as my fireball hits them. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and control my breathing. I can’t think about her; all it does is make me angry. I can’t have those memories. I can’t afford to remember the way that flickering candle lit up my life the night she first walked in. I can’t think about the comfort she provided me at my HIV talks with the doctor; touching me softly as a reminder I wasn’t alone. I can’t think about her beautiful, full lips pressed up against mine in the loft.

“Stop thinking about it then!” I shout, stabbing my pencil into the cushion fabric.

An old woman shoots me a concerned glance from a few seats down, but she makes no move to help me.

I focus my eyes on the notepad.

“I’m writing one great song.” I whisper to myself, tapping the pencil against the windowpane to no particular tune. 

The words just won’t come. Not like they did in that mad rush of inspiration I had when I wrote the song for her. I don’t even like thinking her name. I want to forget her face, her voice, her touch. I want to erase her smile, her singing, her warmth. 

I shut the pad. The bus speeds on. I can’t turn back. I'm too far gone now.

And will anyone mind? 

I picture Mark, getting in late tonight and shouting out his complaints about Alexi to me. And then he realises there’s no one home. He'll be shocked. Maybe he’ll hope I've decided to finally go outside. And then he’ll find my note. He’ll read it and know that I’ve gone away and I'm not going back.

And then what?

A sigh of relief and whispered, “Finally”? A few tears and the idea of moving on? A missing person report? A word to friends? Or nothing?

Mark is just a friend. It’s not like he can’t cope on his own. He won’t mind. He won’t be broken without me. He'll be fine.

And the others?

Maureen will wake up tomorrow morning in her cow onesie, greeted by the news of my disappearance. I don’t think she’ll care. She'll carry on as normal; go off to put on another show.

Joanne will be the same. She'll still go off to work early tomorrow. She'll put on her suit and continue with her life, the way I couldn’t do in New York.

Collins hasn’t seen me much recently anyway, what with me staying inside. It won’t make a difference to him. 

I know if Angel was still here, she would care. She cared about everyone. She would be the one organising for them all to chase after me and bring me back. She would be shouting at anyone who didn’t want to help.

And without her, they’re all lost. And they won’t come after me. Because in their eyes, what’s one more lost person?

I look out the window at all the cars speeding past and think of Mark coming after me.

But I know that’s not going to happen. He doesn’t even know where I'm going. For all he knows, I could be leaving the country.

I don’t understand why I'm so desperate for him to come anyway. I'm running away. Why would I want someone to take me back?

Why is Mark the only person I can imagine saving me?

What is it about him?

At least now I don’t have to understand. Now I can just run from it all. There's no point trying to make sense of the things you can avoid.

I look away from the window, move the bag at my feet and shut my eyes.

Maybe in sleep I can get a break.

_I’m in a black chamber. There don’t seem to be any doors. It's too dark to see the walls around me. The only light is a tiny sliver coming in from a barred window. It reminds me of a jail cell._

_The sound of high heel boots echoes through the prison. There's the noise of hinges squeaking. But no light comes from the door. The room remains submerged in night._

_I can’t see the person but I hear their footsteps. That unnerves me. I reach out a hand to see if I can feel anyone nearby, but all I touch is the cold air. There's no one too close to be a threat. Maybe no one at all._

_“Roger.” A voice whispers._

_My head spins to the direction of the noise, but still nothing. Just darkness._

_“Roger.” It says again, this time from the other side of the room._

_My heart is racing now. I can hear it beating in the silence of this place. It sounds like a drum._

_“Who’s there?” I demand._

_There's a soft laugh and I see a candle flickering. It lights up a face. A very familiar face._

_“Angel!” I shout._

_She looks great. She’s wearing a wig with a pink flower pinned in. Her eyes seem to shine with a surprising amount of life for someone who’s dead. Pulled around her body is that red coat with the thick fur trim. She has those same zebra print leggings and heeled boots. This is what she wore the day I first saw her._

_“It’s so great to see you!” I laugh._

_But something about her face isn’t right. Her dark eyes are colder, perhaps just a result of being trapped in such a miserable place. But that’s not all. It's the irises. They're wrong. Instead of a warm brown, they seem to be deep crimson. It might be a trick of the poor light, but something tells me it’s not._

_A tongue flicks out her mouth and licks her blood coloured lips. I notice with a shudder that the tongue is forked like a reptile._

_Something is dreadfully off here._

_“What are you doing Roger?” I realise another detail that’s out of place. It’s not Angel’s voice; not the sweet, calm tone I've missed so much. No, it’s a quiet hiss that creeps up my spine like an icy talon._

_“Angel?” I ask._

_She steps forward and suddenly the candle bursts into flame, exploding and spreading light through the room._

_Angel smiles at me with a pair of stained fangs._

_I see her fully now._

_And I see what’s on her back. Erupting from the fabric of her clothes are wings. But not the white, feathered wings I like to picture her with. These are scaly, like the wings of a giant bat. And black. They stand out against the cavernous room that now glows with light._

_She doesn’t look like an angel. She looks like a devil._

_She makes another move but is stopped. I hear the rattle of metal and see an iron chain around her ankle. Someone's keeping her tied up down here._

_I swallow hard and back away. I don’t like the hungry glint in Angel’s red eyes. I don’t like the way her monstrous wings beat as she strains against the chains. I don’t like the razor teeth sticking out her top jaw._

_“You’re a fool Roger.” The devil whispers._

_She reaches out a hand and I see there aren’t fingernails, but talons. They're curved like daggers and seem to itch to dig into me. But the thing that makes me feel sick is the fact that those hideous weapons are painted with the same glittery blue that Angel’s nails used to be._

_“What happened to you?” I croak._

_Angel smiles again; a grin that tells me she knows something I don’t._

_“Why are you running?” She asks me._

_I shiver when the monster speaks in Angel’s smooth, kind voice. It has no right to use such a wonderful person to torment me like this._

_“Do you not like me using her voice?” It asks, smirking at me, “Does it hurt you?”_

_Angel’s voice is quiet in the huge space, but I hear it perfectly._

_“Why am I seeing you?” I ask weakly._

_The creature in Angel’s body tries to move forward again and lets out a hiss of anguish when the chain trips it._

_It stands again, brushing off its wings and licking its lips again. The blue claws stretch out, longing for my flesh._

_“You shouldn’t have run.” It says, still sounding like my friend, “Nothing good awaits you in Santa Fe.”_

_I don’t speak. The beast’s eyes glance over my body, landing on my neck._

_I move a hand to cover the area it stares at._

_“Everything will be worse there.” It laughs, the same laugh Angel would let out when Collins made a joke._

_“No.” I mutter._

_“There will be an accident – a disaster. You will barely survive.” A loop of the chain disappears, and it takes another step backwards._

_I shake my head. None of this is true._

_“And you have hurt people.” It shuts its eyes and a terrifying smile plays on its lips. A drop of something red falls from its mouth._

_“I can’t believe you’ve left.”_

_Another two chains suddenly aren’t there. I back off further._

_“Think about Mark.”_

_“Mark doesn’t care!” I snap, shocked by my own volume._

_And there are no chains left._

_Angel moves forward, smiling at the freedom._

_“Mark’s feelings are stronger than you realise.” The bloody lips say._

_And she’s biting at my neck, lunging forward like a snake._

I jolt myself awake with a scream. That same old lady is looking at me. She still does nothing. 

My breathing is racing, and my heart won’t slow down.

That was the worst thing I've ever seen. Something so evil, manipulating the body of someone so pure. Angel killing me.

It was just a dream.

Angel isn’t really trapped in that place. She isn’t a monster. She wouldn’t hurt me.

Angel is in heaven. She has beautiful feathery wings like a dove. She's happy.

But what did she mean about Mark’s feelings? Surely, she means he’s a closer friend than I realised. It couldn’t be anything else. 

And it doesn’t matter anyway. I'll never see him again now. I've left that life behind.

I don’t want to think. It hurts too much. I close my eyes again and pray from dreamless sleep.

…

I stir from a dull slumber and see the bus coming to a stop. Stretching out my arms, I wipe my eyes and yawn. 

Out the window is the most beautiful place I've ever seen. We're parked in the middle of a little plaza. In the centre of that is a fountain of crystal clear water. It spouts out the mouth of a ceramic fish. Surrounding the parking bay are tourist shops and restaurants with waiters serving people seated at tables outside. The smell of various types of food fills the air. 

All the gorgeous, stone buildings are illuminated with yellow lights that make the place seem like it’s shining. 

The bus empties and that old lady smiles at me as she gets off. 

I'm overwhelmed by the greenery. There are lush trees framing both sides of the road. Potted plants line the street. And people don’t seem surprised by it.

There's a church at the edge of the square. It towers above everything else and stands out dramatically, despite being made of the same sandy rock. 

I find the address in my pocket. The house is just around the corner. I'll head over there later. I want to look around first.

All thoughts of that awful dream and Mark leave my head as I go into random shops and try free samples of food being handed out. Everything seems so welcoming here, so much better than I could have dreamed.

Santa Fe really is amazing.

I can certainly see why Angel wanted to come here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mark gets a p.o.v next, don't worry. i can't let my fictional boyfriend get all the attention (as much as i want to)


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mark is sad too

Mark’s P.O.V

“Hey Roger! I’m back!” I call into the quiet room, sliding open the door to our flat, “Can you believe her? I swear Alexi has me working longer every day for less and less money.” 

There’s no reply. I know that Roger hasn’t quite been himself recently, what with Mimi hooking up with Benny again. But he will usually swear about Alexi, lying on the sofa, a guitar on his lap. Forever stuck in the same space since he can’t find the energy or a reason to get outside. 

I’ve missed the old Roger. The one that used to practically drag me outside, the one that sung his heart out in the back of pubs, the one that would do anything to treat Mimi to a drink at some café we both knew he couldn’t afford. 

I used to admire the man so damn much. Only one year out of a drug addiction and he was already putting himself out there, already trying new things again, had a girlfriend despite his previous experience with April. 

After his addiction, wow, it must’ve been about a year that he locked himself away. Closed all his doors. Never went anyway except for inside and on the roof. I was so worried. I was so scared I’d lost my best friend for good. 

He’s only recently started getting better again. It was the day we first met Angel, when Roger smiled for the first time I’d seen in so long, that he fought against his grief and stepped outside. Angel was amazing like that. She walked into our dingy flat that day and it seemed to light up, just as Collins’ face did when Angel played her drums for us. 

She had a talent. In this world, it is rare to meet a truly good person. One per lifetime. Well, mine was Angel. And she blessed all that she touched. 

God, I miss her. I miss the way she could make anyone smile, I miss the way she would stand up for herself always, I miss the way she would never make us pay – she would always find the money to take us out somewhere for dinner. I miss how she could befriend anyone she talked to. I miss the way she would seem to dance down a street; so light-footed, so happy. 

“Roger?”

Silence. I'm getting nervous now. Roger's subdued, yes, but not silent. There are a million thoughts rushing through my head. What if something’s happened to him? Someone could’ve broke in and hurt him. He could’ve fallen and be unconscious. Or what if...he could’ve tried to end everything, like April had. 

No. He wouldn’t do that to me. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe he’s gone outside. Maybe he’s recovering. This could be the day I’ve been dreaming of. Maybe now I can take him to Angel’s grave. It’s really beautiful; overlooking the lake. She would’ve loved it. I’ve always wanted Roger to see it. Because it’d put his mind at ease knowing Angel would be somewhere nice, rather than some dark graveyard that I’m sure Roger thinks it is. 

I step into the room and smile. Roger’s guitar isn’t on the sofa like normal. He must’ve taken it. Maybe he’s gone to sing for Angel. I’m sure she’d love that. Or he could be performing on the street, just like Angel used to. Living in her shoes. 

I head over to the fridge. I know there’s some frozen lasagne in there. There were two portions this morning: one for Roger, one for me. I know he doesn’t like eating that crap but it’s that or starve. And I had enough of starving last year.

But there’s still two boxes of lasagne in the fridge. Alarm bells start ringing in my head. That means Roger hasn’t eaten, which means he hasn’t been home, which means he could be hurt somewhere. 

My breath is shaky and my heart is erratic as it pounds against my chest, trying to rip through and break out of my ribs. Roger isn’t here. Oh God. I’m such a fool! I should’ve known something was up when I walked into a dead room. Roger always talks to me. 

I don’t know what to do. My mind is whirring so fast that I can barely string together a set of coherent thoughts. There’s only thing in my head that I understand. 

Fear. 

It’s this prehistoric, Neanderthal instinct kind of fear. The fear that existed when man lived in caves and hunted deer to survive. A fear that they wouldn’t have made sense of back then, but they could sense it and knew it meant something bad.

That's the fear I’m feeling right now. I can’t make sense of it. I can barely register why it’s there. But its itchy little fingers tickle the back of my brain and, just like the Neanderthals, it chills me because I know it’s telling me something terrible has happened.

Images are flying through my head. Images of Roger: bleeding in the street, mugged for money he doesn’t have, lying there and dying alone, asking himself why no one is coming to help, why I’ve abandoned him. Roger crumpled and broken in the angry mouth of some brook, perhaps thrown in by someone with more hate than heart or stumbled in by a mistake of his own foot. 

More and more. Shot and stabbed. 

More. Bleeding. 

More. Dead.

More. All my fault.

There are tears. Relentless tears that cannot stop. They're here today because they’ve been hiding for so long. I didn’t cry at Angel’s funeral; I held Roger as he cried. I didn’t cry when Mimi went missing. Roger cried and I told him everything would be alright. 

I’ve always been helping him. And now he’s hurting me.

I start pacing the room. What do I do? What do I do? 

What do you do when someone goes missing? Should I call the police? But what would I say? _When did you see him last?_ Well, you see, I’ve been very busy lately and I haven’t seen him much at all. _So, you have no idea if he showed any signs of mental illness?_ No... _You have no idea what states he’s in?_ No... _And you’re his best friend?_ Yes...

I can’t make that phone call. They’ll ask to speak to someone else. But there is no one else. Collins hasn’t been inside here for ages. Mimi doesn’t even visit this part of town anymore; she sold her room downstairs and moved in with Benny. Maureen is living alone and Joanne’s sleeping in her office. No one’s been here since...

Well, I guess the last person to visit us was Angel.

She was sick. She was weak. It was just before she was admitted to hospital. She'd told Collins that she wanted to see me and Roger one last time before... 

Well, she knew what was going to happen to her. 

I remember how much I’d wanted to cry that day. Angel pulled out her drumsticks and she tried to play for us, just like she did the day we first met her. She looked at us with dying eyes; gaunt, sunken eyes that begged.

_“Never stop living."_

The words were rough, and her voice was hoarse. It sounded more like the rattling of a rusty chain than a person talking. 

_“Live every minute of your life. There will be times when it’s hard. God, it can get unbearable sometimes. But you must keep living. Never let yourself fade into the shadows, never let yourself forget what you love most. Promise me that you will live.”_

She was crying and then Roger was crying. And I wanted to cry.

_“Make sure Collins keeps living too. Make sure he knows that I don’t care if he stops crying over me.”_

We nodded.

_“But tell him he’d better fucking not forget about me, or else he’s in for a serious haunting.”_

We all laughed. The mood was broken. Angel may have been fading away before our eyes, but she never lost her ability to drag a laugh out of you.

But I failed her. I’ve stopped living. If I was living, I wouldn’t have sold my soul to the devil that is Alexi Darling. I would be here, with Roger, living. I’d carry on making my documentary, instead of all the sleezy rubbish that numbs my mind every day at work. 

I’m alive but I’m not living. God, Angel must be so disappointed in me. I bet she’s looking down right now, asking why I ignored her final wish, why I’ve done this to myself.

I’m not living. I work long hours in a job I don’t care about for money that barely makes a difference. I'm never there for my friends who need all the help they can get. I’m never home. It’s like I’ve completely rejected them all for work. 

Roger probably ran away. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had enough of my bullshit and finally got up and left. I would be willing to believe that, if it weren’t for the fact that he can’t even bring himself to go outside.

I've failed Angel in other ways too. I promised her that I’d make sure Collins kept living as well. But he’s even worse than me. He’s forgotten who he even is. He can’t do anything. He doesn’t want to see anyone. He doesn’t remember how to smile. 

I'm sorry Angel. I’m just not good enough. I made impossible promises that I should’ve seen I would never be able to keep. I’m sorry I got your hopes up. You should never have trusted me. 

How do I do it Angel? You told me to keep living, but I don’t know how to. I need to work, or I’ll have no money again. I can’t make time for frivolous activities. I can’t help Collins get over you. Just like I can’t help Maureen and Joanne make up, and can’t help Mimi forgive Roger. 

Maybe if I was living, like Angel wanted me to, Roger would be here. If I hadn’t left him alone all day. Who knows what’s happened to him? Who knows where he is? It could be my fault if my nightmares are true. How can I live with myself with a conscience like that?

Something catches my eye. White. Small. A piece of paper. A note. 

My legs carry me over to it, my thoughts coming to a total standstill for the first time since I walked in. Maybe it’s from Roger. Maybe it’s going to tell me that he’s okay. Or maybe...maybe it’s a suicide note, like the one April left him.

I need to stop thinking like this! God, I’m going to drive myself mad. I just need to read the note, before jumping to any conclusions, especially ones that are putting me even more on edge.

_Mark, I need to leave. This place is driving me crazy. It feels like I'm trapped. I need to go and get away from the memories. If I'm far away, maybe I'll stop seeing Angel and Mimi around me. Maybe I'll be able to forget about them. I don’t have long left and I need to spend that time living my life, not hiding in a loft. But I can’t stand to be around people I know. I need a fresh start, another try.  
I hope you understand._

_Your best friend,_

_Roger._

If I wasn’t crying before, I am now. I don’t know what to think. Roger was suffering, he was struggling, yet he never talked to me about it. He never trusted me enough. That’s like a stab straight to my heart. He didn’t think he could be open with me.

But he still signed off as my best friend. So he must have cared a little bit at least. And since he left me a note, instead of just disappearing, he considered my feelings. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt me. 

Then there’s shock. This man, who I’ve built my whole life alongside, has gone. He’s got on a bus and left me behind so easily. And it’s all because of me. All because I became Alexi’s little puppet, letting her pull whatever strings she wanted. All because I was so desperate for money that I agreed to every extra hour, every extra day. I even left Roger home alone on Christmas. 

No wonder he needed to leave. Because he was destroyed by Angel’s death and Mimi breaking up with him, and his best friend couldn’t even spare a moment to remind him that he was important. Because I couldn’t bring myself to take a day off. 

Roger’s note makes it sound like he’s not blaming me, but I know that he must be inside. How could he not? If I’d been home, if I’d tried to show him my feelings instead of hiding them all away and working myself to death, if I’d kept my promise to Angel and just lived for once, he would still be here.

Roger is out there somewhere, in a country he doesn’t know, in a world he’s hardly seen, with people he’s never met and the knowledge that he has nothing to lose, nothing to go back to. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. And if he is, are they bitter thoughts? Or are they sad ones, wishing things could have turned out differently?

The room is quiet. It feels so big without another body to share it with.

Where is he? My tears are so fast. I have nothing to hold onto. 

Where is he? How can I cope here by myself? How can I go to work tomorrow, knowing that going to work is the thing that sent my friend away? 

I dial the phone. Who cares who I ring? 

“Hey.” A voice answers. It’s a worn-down voice, a tired and dead voice. I remember a time when it would’ve been smooth and calm and confident. Well, times have changed, and Tom Collins is only half the man he was when Angel was alive.

“Have you heard from Roger today?” I can’t stop the question from slipping out my mouth. I need to know. Maybe Collins knows where he’s gone. Maybe we can stop him from running out of our lives forever.

“No. Why? Is something wrong?” He sounds so tired. It’s something I’m still getting used to. This is the man who would stay awake all night when he came over, just talking about life. Now he seems to sleep all day.

“He’s gone.” I choke, a lump sticking in my throat, “He left me a note. He’s...he’s ran away.” 

“What?” It’s like a switch flips in him. He's suddenly alert, worry creeping into a louder voice.

“He’s gone and I don’t know how to find him.” 

I drop the phone as I cry harder. I can hear the muffled voice coming out of it, but his words seem distant and strange. I don’t care about what he says. Nothing he says can help. Not unless he can bring Roger back. 

I feel utterly hopeless. There’s nothing I can do for him. And even if there was, I’d probably fail anyway. I’ve had all these years to do something to help him, and yet here I am, crying in my empty flat because I didn’t act quick enough, because I ignored Angel’s words.

_“Never let yourself forget what you love most.”_

But I did Angel. I forgot Roger. I forgot how much he means to me. And now he’s gone. I have no way of finding him and I’m scared I’ll never be able to see him again, that I’ll never be able to apologise and tell him all the things I’ve kept locked away in my heart.

_Maybe he doesn’t want finding._


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roger is slightly more happy

Roger’s P.O.V

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m living for her. I'm living for Angel.

My guitar seems so quiet amidst the rabble of Santa Fe’s crowded streets. I strum it, the pain in my fingers so familiar and comforting, leaning against a great stone pillar. The guitar case lies open at my feet in the hopes someone might have some sympathy and throw me a dollar. 

My eyes shut as I let my fingers take over. I wish I could play something I’ve written. But every time I try to write, all I can think of is Mimi and the song I wrote for her and then I’m crying and getting frustrated and ripping up my notebook. 

So today I’m playing _Summer of ‘69_ by the one and only Bryan Adams. I need something I can get the right notes for if I’m to get anyone’s attention. I bet Angel chose songs she knew well when she was busking on the streets of New York.

“I got my first real six-string, bought it at the five-and-dime. Played it ‘til my fingers bled. Was the summer of ‘69.” 

When I start to sing, people walking past stop and look. I can feel their judgement. Behind those curious eyes, they’re weighing up the options. _I’ll wait and see if he’s any good, if he’s worth paying._ I suddenly admire Angel for doing this every day. How did she not let their scrutiny get to her?

“Me and some guys from school had a band and we tried real hard. Jimmy quit; Jody got married. I should’ve known we’d never get far. Oh, and when I look back now. That summer seemed to last forever. And if I had the choice, I’d always wanna be there. Those were the best days of my life.”

A crowd has gathered now. They’re watching me with interest. There are two women stood at the front. The shorter of the two sweeps the other off her feet and they start to dance. An old homeless man lying in a dirty sleeping bag starts to smile, his few teeth flash and his hazy eyes shine. A small boy, no more than five years old, grabs a coin off a grinning woman, runs forward and drops it in my case. I smile back at him and he giggles, going back and grabbing his mum’s hand.

“Ain’t no use in complaining when you’ve got a job to do. Spent my evening’s down in the drive-in. And that’s when I met you, yeah!” 

I love how music brings people together. I can see why Angel kept doing this. Seeing the two women share a short kiss, the homeless man stand up on thin legs and start to dance, and the little boy and his mum smile as he rushes to toss me more money. 

The thrill is unlike any other. Angel was right; you’ve never lived until you’ve performed on the street. 

“Standin’ on your mama’s porch. You told me that you’d wait forever. Oh, and when you held my hand, I knew that it was now or never. Those were the best days of my life. Oh yeah! Back in the summer of ‘69, oh!”

It feels like I’m on stage again. But so much better. When I was in my band all those years ago, we only sung in the backs of pubs and the majority of our audiences were often drunk, depressed, middle-aged men. But this is so much more raw, more real. 

There are so many people watching, all smiling and dancing together. Total strangers, all coming together as one to enjoy my music. That is true magic. I can let the rest of the world melt away here; forget the hurt I am surely causing back home, erase any regret. Because all I can feel is the music. The rhythm of my guitar pulses through my body and my mouth knows the words with even thinking. 

The only thing that matters to me right now is the warmth of the bodies around me, the gentle bite of the strings in my fingers, and the way the words fit so perfectly on my tongue.

I can feel these peoples’ joy. And there’s a sense of pride. Those two women who are now kissing; I have done that. The homeless man swaying to my music with a wide smile; I’ve done that. The little boy who keeps begging his mum for more money; I’ve done that. I am making these people happy. It's the best feeling in the world.

“Man, we were killing time. We were young and restless; we needed to unwind. I guess nothin’ can last forever. Forever, no! Yeah!”

There are more and more people dropping money in my case. Coins and now even notes. Each of them flash me a smile. A genuine smile. I don’t even care that they’re paying me. All that counts is the looks on their faces. 

“And now the times are changin’; look at everything that’s come and gone. Sometimes when I play that old six-string, I think about you, wonder what went wrong.” 

It feels like this was what I was made to do. Standing here, the sun heating me up, feeding off the love of my audience, I feel completely in my element. I never understood how wonderful this felt. Maybe if I had, I would’ve joined Angel and we could’ve played together. 

I'm only just getting a taste of what Angel’s life was like. And I’m already wishing that I'd put the time in to experience it with her, instead of doing it for her now. I should’ve made more of an effort to live while she was here.

“Standin’ on your mama’s porch, you told me it’d last forever. Oh, and when you held my hand, I knew that it was now or never. Those were the best days of my life!”

People are singing along now, jumping and pumping their arms in the air like they’re at a proper concert. It just gives me more confidence. I hold the guitar up in the air, attacking the strings while the crowd cheers loudly. 

“Oh yeah! Back in the summer of ‘69! Oh! It was the summer of ‘69. Oh yeah! Me and my baby in ‘69. Oh!”

The people are going crazy. Leaping and singing and dancing like it’s the first time anyone’s ever busked out here. I’ve lost count of the amount of people who step forward to give me money and the people who have thanked me.

“It was the summer, the summer, the summer of ‘69. Yeah!” 

I hold my guitar in one hand and raise it up high. The cheering and shouting is all I can hear as I stand, breathing like I’ve run a marathon. Applause fills my ears. Everything else fades into the background. 

I realise now that this is the first time I’ve put myself out there since Angel died. This is the first time I’ve tried something new and exciting. And I love it. The rush it’s given me, the high I’m riding, is like no other. Angel really was living her life to the fullest. 

And in this moment, I can see myself living like this. Coming out here every day, wanting for nothing more than to please these people. That's a life I can imagine. An easy life. A happy life.

The crowd slowly starts to disperse, whispers of “he’s so good” hanging in the air. God, hearing that sentence is enough to keep me warm for a week. 

None of the shows I applied for agreed with these people. Every gig, every band. It was always the same. _“You’re not quite what we’re looking for.”_ Hearing that repeated so many times crushed me. Music was my passion and only talent. It was the only subject I’d ever been any good at. So, if I couldn’t do that, then what could I do? 

Other than turn to drugs. 

To this day I am amazed that Mark stuck with me through that. He never left my side, even long after he gave up trying to get me sober. He was just...there. Always. And whenever he was there, I was calm. When he was there, I could forget that I had no future and would never amount to anything. Helping him record his films, I felt almost as alive as I do today.

Though of course, not quite. I didn’t know the meaning of the word alive until I started to strum that guitar and those women started to dance and the old man smiled and the little boy paid me. 

I wonder what Mark’s thinking now. He must have read the letter last night. My bet is that he told Collins and they’re both in full panic mode trying to work out how to get me back. Why don’t they understand that I don’t want to go back? I ran away to start a new life, to live out my last years someplace nice, maybe even to accomplish something in a town where people believe in me because I’m not known as the Avenue Failure.

In New York I was never given a chance. Turned away from every interview. Because of the fucking reputation that the bohos have built for me. Back there, everyone knew that I’d been stuck one the same project for a whole year and that motivation was so rare that I spent most of my days lying on a sofa, playing notes on the guitar without any intention to finish a song. 

Because why would I want to finish a song that I knew would only get turned away anyway. It would also be _not quite what we’re looking for._

The crowd’s gone but I can feel their joy lingering. 

There's a pang of guilt as I think of Mark, blaming himself as usual, wondering what he did to push me away. If I was granted one final wish, it would be to hug him tightly again and tell him that I’m sorry, that it was never his fault. 

It was always me. I always pushed people away. 

First Mimi; not showing her that I loved her enough, not proving I cared, making her doubt our relationship, sending her back to begging at Benny’s feet. 

And Mark. I never even tried to do anything. I never tried to get out. No wonder he was always working. He had no reason to want to be at home, when I was just a shell of who I used to be. 

Yes, I’m guilty but I’m also glad. Mark doesn’t need me there. He doesn’t need to see me die. Collins doesn’t need me. I’m the worst person to motivate him. Mark’s there for that. Mimi doesn’t need me, not anymore. Maureen and Joanne don’t need me, they just need to talk with each other for once, to settle their differences and make some compromises.

The people here need me more than anyone back home. 

The sun disappears behind a cloud and I find myself cold. I pull my leather jacket tighter around my body. My finger brushes something metal. I know that I don’t want to look down.

I look down. My heart stops. 

I'm wearing the necklace chain that Mimi bought me when we started dating. I haven’t worn it for months and I have no memory of putting it on this morning. It’s been in a box back in New York since we broke up. So how is it here? 

I remember the way I was so close to slipping a candle into my bag yesterday. A habit. Every time I met with Mimi, I would take one. I probably put the stupid necklace on too. I’m trying to escape memories out here. I don’t need them physically strung around my neck. 

I take off the necklace and put it in my jacket pocket. I can’t help but notice that there seems to be a lot of money in my guitar case. People out here sure are generous. Either that, or they just don’t get much entertainment. 

“Hey! Kid!”

The old homeless man is looking at me with his blurry, unfocused eyes. A grimy bottle of vodka is in his hand, and I’m worried he’s going to drop it as he wobbles over to me. I grab onto his shoulder to steady him, which makes him smile a toothless grin. I don’t want to take someone to hospital on my first day here. 

“You new here, right?” He asks, squinting at me. I don’t see how that will make much difference. He looks too drunk to see very well.

“Yes sir. Just arrived today.” I say, bending down to pack up my guitar. I dump the money into my pockets and put the instrument back in its case. I don’t want this man falling on me and breaking the only valuable possession I own.

“Thought so. Ain’t never seen you before.” He smells of whiskey and cigarettes and his face is dirty. I wonder how long he’s been out on the streets.

I nod and offer him a small smile as I sling the case over my shoulder.

“Well, thank you son. You know, it been a long time since I’ve had fun like that.” He chuckles, a phlegmy sound that makes me wince. 

I smile at him, not sure what to say. 

“How old are you kid?” He asks, seeming to examine me.

“20.” I tell him.

“Damn. Wish I could sing like that when I was 20.” He says, looking into the distance.

He staggers again, swaying like a leaf in a breeze. I hold his arm and keep him upright. When he looks up again, his face is set fiercely and he looks suddenly intense. 

“Keep playing kid. Never stop playing that music. You see that happiness? That was real. You just made all them peoples’ days better.” He says quietly, staring straight up at me. 

A shiver runs through me, “I won’t stop.” I tell him.

He nods firmly, “So you’ll come back out here tomorrow?”

Of course. I want to feel free again. I want this to be my life now. I want this to be the new me. If I play like this every day, I really can become a better person, and I can die without the hurt of knowing I ran away and ruined my life. Maybe I can even wipe away every last bit of the guilt. 

“Yes.” I say firmly.

He nods and all I can picture is me singing again tomorrow, a bigger crowd surrounding me. The only thing that could improve that moment would be one of the guys who turned me away so many times seeing me and regretting his choice.

That or Mark showing up.

I'm so confused. One minute I’m hoping no one ever finds me, the next I’m playing out fantasies in my head of Mark arriving, hugging me, telling me how worried he was and how much he wants me to stay with him, kissing me...

Wait, what? What the fuck? That’s absolutely disgusting. What is that scenario doing in my mind? That isn’t right. That isn’t something that I wish would happen, like all the other thoughts are.

What is going on with me? I'm all over the place. I need to make up my mind on what I want. To stay here and perform? To go back to Mark? 

“Hey kid, what's your name? I need to look out for it when it’s up in lights in a few years.” The homeless man smiles again.

“Roger Davis.” I tell him.

He whistles softly, “Now that is a name made for stardom. Just make sure you don’t forget where you started when you’re famous.” 

“I won’t.” I say.

There are two things wrong with his statement.

One is that Santa Fe is not where I started singing. I first played my guitar in New York, in my freezing, empty flat with Mark by my side. 

It was winter. Our heat was off. We were both sat on the worn sofa, shivering despite the thin blankets we'd found. 

I'd just bought the guitar after we'd struck lucky finding some money in the gutter. Mark was encouraging me. I think he just wanted to see me enjoy something, as April had died recently. I had insisted he use the money to buy a better camera for filming his documentary, but he said he would next time but I had to have something good first.

I will never forget how he cheered. Loud enough to fill the whole room, even if he was the only one there. And he was the only one I wanted to be there. 

I remember how he had made me feel so good, had pushed me out the house and forced me to audition somewhere.

No. Santa Fe is not where I started. I started in a flat that I was in danger of being thrown out of, with the only fan I needed next to me. 

And that’s the place I’ve ran away from.

Santa Fe isn’t even where I carried on playing. After I was rejected time and time again, Mark persuaded me to carry on playing, got me to do it for his ears only. He made sure I didn’t give up when I really was ready to.

Santa Fe is just a place that I have sung in once. It is not my beginning or my middle. 

Though maybe it is my end. 

If I stay here for the rest of my life, Santa Fe can be the end of my story. But do I want it to be?

If I really am serious about staying here for good, getting rid of the old me and starting a new life, then maybe this is my start. If I Tip-Ex out all the other pages of my story and consider this day my birth, this is where I begin. 

I make a decision. 

The person I once was is dead. I am now a man with no memories. That is who I am in Santa Fe. I have no pain because I have not left anything behind. I have been born here and I will die here. Mark is not going to find me. I don’t want him to.  
The second flaw is that I will not live long enough to become famous, even if someone finally decides I have the potential.

I have, what, a year if lucky. I know that my HIV hasn’t become full-blown AIDS yet. But come on, it’s only a matter of time. I can feel myself getting weaker and thinner by the day. I clearly don’t have much life left in me. 

I don’t have a future. I’ve known that for a long time now. I used to dream as a child that I would be famous one day, that I would be celebrated for the songs I wrote, teenage girls swooning over me and hundreds of thousands booking tickets for my concerts. 

But that dream is in the bin. As soon as I was diagnosed, every hope I’d ever had for the future was burnt and thrown away. I’ve spent the last few years of my life, knowing that I will never be anything, that no one will ever remember me, and that soon enough I’ll just be a photo in an album. One that Mark shows to his kids one day and he tries to get them to love me as the godfather he wanted me to be, but to them I’m just one more dead guy. They’ll laugh at my hair, because by then the style is sure to have changed, and that’s about it.

I've faced the fact that one day I will be gone. I decided last year that I would die alone. There's no way I can torture anyone by making them watch me die. Maybe even then, I was planning to run away at some point. 

“I better see you tomorrow then. I’ll be waiting right here for you, Roger Davis.” The old man winks at me, almost tripping again as he walks – if it really counts as walking – back to the corner where his sleeping bag lies.

“Wait!” I shout after him. 

He turns, pure confusion on his face.

“Here.” I walk to him and pull a ten dollar note out the pocket of my leather jacket, “You need it more than I do.”

I don’t know if that’s true, but I want to believe it anyway. This man could be one of those fakes who pretends to be homeless for cash from gullible fools like me. But there’s something in those eyes – clouded as they are by alcohol – that tells me he hasn’t had a home for a long time.

“Are you sure son?” He asks, looking up at me as if he can’t quite fathom what I’m offering. How long has it been since someone was kind to him?

“Positive.” I say, pressing the note into his bony, filthy hand. 

His eyes meet mine and I see that they’re brimming with tears. His thin lips are pulled into a wavering smile and I feel my heart melt. I’m not, by nature, a sensitive guy. Not many things can touch me. But this man’s face right now, it’s almost enough to make me cry too. 

I'm really not sure what’s going on with me. First, I have some freaky-ass dream about Angel telling me that I’m doomed, which sounds like a prophecy and I definitely don’t believe it. Then, I have mental daydreams about Mark kissing me, which make absolutely no sense and are, quite frankly, gross. And now some old man is bringing me to tears just because of his earnest gratefulness.

I think I’m changing. I never would’ve found this moment beautiful. I would’ve scoffed or rolled my eyes and said whatever. I'm seeing now that maybe those were the effects of a life hiding from the world. I never gave my emotions are a chance to come through, I always squashed them before I looked weak. 

I guess it’s like what I overheard Mark saying to Collins over the phone: _“Roger’s complicated. Because he dresses like a rockstar and wants to be one, he thinks he has to act like one too. Yes, I mean he wears black eyeliner, a leather jacket and paints his fingernails black. But I know that’s not him. He always seems more like himself when he drops the act. Yeah, I agree. He puts too much pressure on himself to act tough.”_

“Thank you, kid. Thank you.” The man walks away surprisingly quickly. I can only assume that it’s because he doesn’t want me to see when he starts to cry properly. 

My heart goes out to him. And my own empathy shocks me more than anything else has today.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

…

I look a fucking mess. I don’t know when it happened or why I didn’t notice but I really hope I didn’t look this awful when I was singing earlier. If I did, I wouldn’t have been surprised if the old man thought I was homeless too. 

I've managed to book a week in this cheap hotel not far away from the plaza that I began my new life in. It's a heck of a lot nicer than the loft back in New York, but I’m still getting used to living alone. I’ve always had someone else with me, but I’m an adult now. I can do this. 

The money I earnt today on the street covered the room for this week but after that...Who knows? All the money I brought was spent on the bus ride here. I’m hoping that I get some more tomorrow in the plaza, because if I don’t, I could soon be joining that old man on out there. So much for being famous. 

This place is a massive upgrade from the loft. It's got heating and proper lights and windows and it doesn’t smell of sweat. The furniture is actually soft and I keep lying on the sofa again and again, still not able to get over how comfortable it is. There's a bed that doesn’t creak and groan every time someone gets in it and the carpet under my feet feels like heaven. 

But the floor of the small bathroom is smooth and cold. And that seems to be where I’ve spent most of my time since arriving.

My eyes are looking at my reflection in the mirror, but the man staring back is someone I barely recognise. He’s a lot skinnier and the bags under his eyes are heavier and his huge leather jacket looks like it should be crushing him. His hair is a damn lion’s mane that is in desperate need of cutting or brushing or anything and his lips are cracked and dry. His T-shirt and jeans are covered in small holes, but there’s a few too many of them to pass as fashionable.

I know that I haven’t been taking care of myself very well and it has been a long time since I last looked in a mirror and had the mental strength to even care about my appearance, but Jesus Christ, someone could’ve dropped me a hint that I was wasting away without even knowing. At this rate, I’d be dead before I even noticed what was happening.

I run a hand over my face, cringing at the light blonde stubble I can feel on my chin. When I find time or money to go shopping, add razor to my list. And maybe some painkillers; my brain is literally thumping against my skull. I would say new clothes too, but there’s no way I’m going to earn enough to buy something that doesn’t itch at my skin. 

I walk away from the bathroom, away from the strange man who isn’t me that stands in the mirror. The carpet strokes my bare toes and that alone is enough to make me smile. Carpet is something that I’ve only experienced once – in my parents’ house, before I drove away to New York to make my fortune and play my music. Yeah right. All I got in New York was a dead girlfriend, hunger, AIDS, and a shortened life. 

I sit on the sofa, sinking into the cushions and stretching my legs out so that my feet are propped up on the coffee table. I reach out and pull my guitar into my lap, plucking out a few chords. What I really want is to finish writing my own song, so I can play that for the people of Santa Fe tomorrow. But every chord I play sounds wrong. 

I have this clear, bright image in my head of what I want this song to be. But every time I sit down and try to write it, it never turns out how I want it to, and I only get angry. And after angry comes destructive. Last time, I started shouting about how it just wasn’t _right_ and Mark had to restrain me before I started breaking things or myself. 

I can’t really explain the feeling. It's just because I know what this song is. I know what it’s meant to be. But I just can’t do justice to the ideas that are scattered inside my head. Because my mind is so disorganised, and all my thoughts and plans are all over the place. It's a miracle that I even remember to eat anymore.

Sometimes I don’t. I can’t be certain why I’m thinner than before; whether it is because my mind is such a jumble that I often don’t remember food, or if it’s simply the disease that’s slowly but surely killing me. Or maybe even an aftermath of all those drugs I took after April took her life.

The notes coming from the old guitar are sour. It’s not right. It’s never right. 

If I was in New York, Mark would tell me that it’s okay, that I’ll find inspiration soon. But I wouldn’t even care what he said because all I needed to calm me was his voice and his arms around my torso or playing with my hair or anything he knew would help. And he always knew how to help. Because he knew me so fucking well. It sometimes felt like he was the only one who knew me anymore.

No! I have to stop thinking! I have to stop remembering him. I made my choice earlier. I’m starting anew here. That means I can’t look back on these memories. I have to play my guitar without remembering the hours when me and Mark would sit together, brainstorming. 

I have to become detached. Just like he was so good at being. 

I have to forget. 

I will push away every thought including anything from before Santa Fe. I will repress all these fake memories until they all seem like dreams. I will wipe my slate clear, because only then can I remove the guilt that sits on me.

Forgetting is the only way to heal the tear inside me. Forgetting is the only way I can keep going.

…

_I’m in darkness again, darkness that seems far too familiar._

_The silence is so thick and heavy and I can feel it clinging to me; wrapping itself around my body, sliding into my jacket’s pockets, hanging off my arms, dripping into my boots, oozing into my pockets._

_Not Angel appears in front of me before I connect the dots on where I am._

_“So, you’re still here?” It asks me, that horribly wrong smile on a pair of lips that it has no right to use._

_It’s still in Angel’s body, still wearing her clothes and using her voice. Its claws are still painted with the blue glitter polished that I’m convinced it stole from her now-empty bedroom. Its wig is still perfectly positioned, and its face is still hers._

_It looks exactly like Angel except for the red eyes, the pointed teeth, and the grotesque bat wings that Angel does not deserve._

_“You ignored my warning.” I see that the creature is not chained up this time. It’s free to do whatever it wants to me._

_“Funny.” It says, almost dreamily, “I chose this body because I thought that you would listen to her.”_

_I’m not going to speak. I can’t. I don’t want to hear the way my voice will break with fear. I don’t want to see how it will grin and soak up my terror like a plant in the sun._

_“So stubborn.” It laughs, “Always had to be the tough one, didn’t you?”_

_I shake my head. This is a dream. This monster is not possessing Angel’s body. Angel is up in heaven, with the halo and feathered wings she earnt in life. Angel is happily resting. She is not being tortured to do this to me. This is not her._

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real. A nightmare can’t hurt me. This monster doesn’t know me. It doesn’t know anything about me._

_“But I do.” It says softly, “I know everything about you Roger. I know that you only stopped doing heroin because of how much it upset Mark. I know you sung today in front of all those people. I know you have already accepted death. I know that me using your friend’s body hurts you. I know you.”_

_“You don’t know me!” I yell at it, “You don’t know anything about me!”_

_And the thing laughs again. It laughs as it beats those monstrous wings and hovers above me._

_“I do!” It laughs, “That’s why I’ve come to see you again.”_

_This isn’t real. It doesn’t really know me. It's just something in my imagination. Maybe I’m drunk. Someone intoxicated me before I fell asleep. I don’t know. But I do know that this is all fake. This can’t be real._

_“I’m back because you ignored me.” It says, “You’re going to die out here Roger.”_

_“Good.” I say quietly. I’m not going to let this thing win. I will not let it see my fear._

_“Fool!” It hisses. It’s suddenly right in front of my face, those teeth bared and ready to bite._

_“Maybe you’d listen to me if I change form.” It smirks at me._

_There's this huge swirl of smoke that my mind tells me I should be choking on, but I remind myself that I’m in a dream and I can’t even smell the smoke._

_When the smoke clears, Angel is gone. In her place, is Mark. Mark with red eyes and terrifying teeth and claws and wings. And this doesn’t make me ache in the same way seeing Angel’s body manipulated did. This just makes me angry. It fills me with this awful, burning anger that I can feel burning through my veins. My blood feels so hot that I’m convinced it must be searing tracks in my skin, but when I look down at my wrists, they’re smooth as ever._

_“Does this offend you?” It laughs and oh God, that’s Mark’s voice. Mark’s sweet, kind voice. The voice that has snapped me out of countless depressive episodes and helped me see the end of drug withdrawals. That’s a voice that has only ever been good to me. And this monster should not be using it._

_“Yes.” I tell it, “Yes it does, you fucking demon.”_

_My anger only spurs it on. It starts to laugh, and I have to look away because Mark’s eyes should not look like that. It’s so hard to remind myself that Mark isn’t being hurt, that he’s in New York, just like Angel’s in heaven, and he’s not being forced to do this._

_“Roger, I warned you.” It says, grabbing my head with its claws and making me stare up into its freakish eyes, “I told you that you are doomed in Santa Fe, that you’ll be involved in something dangerous.”_

_I can’t talk. Its claws are squeezing my cheeks, pressing my lips together._

_“And you still ran. You still left him.” It pauses, “You left me.”_

_It gestures at Mark’s body, and I can’t take any more._

_“You aren’t him!” I shout, breaking out of its grasp, “You aren’t Mark!”_

_I’m crying and I don’t know why. I’m so glad no one can see me now. I never cry. I definitely never cry in front of anyone. Crying would be the worst possible thing I could do. No one would ever see me the same again. I’d have to work extra hard to put up my “tough guy rockstar” façade. No one would be scared of me again._

_“No.” It says, “But you still left him.”_

_“I saved him!” I sob, “I don’t want him to see me die!”_

_It shakes its head and I hate how it makes Mark’s face look so sad._

_“No, you didn’t. You’ve saved nobody.” It says, “You’ve killed him. Do you know how hard it is for him to live without you?”_

_“Easy!” I say, “He can survive just fine with himself. He’s strong!”_

_It raises an eyebrow, “In the same way that you’re strong?”_

_I pause. I don’t understand what it’s trying to say. Me and Mark are nothing alike. I’m all acted strength and desperate for people to be afraid of me because it’s all I have left. Mark’s naturally strong. He doesn’t give up. We’re opposites._

_“Mark’s as good an actor as you are.” It says quietly._

_Lies. Lies. Lies. All that comes out of its evil mouth are lies._

_“Don’t you understand anything, Roger?” It asks me quietly, “Don’t you see what you’ve done?”_

_What have I done? I’ve betrayed my best friend. But only to protect him. I've done nothing wrong._

_“You aren’t making a new life for yourself out here!” It says, Mark’s voice rising louder and angrier than before, “You’re ruining the life you already have!”_

_“I-”_

_And then it’s not Mark anymore. For a brief moment, the creature is itself. Its twisted, burnt face is something from a nightmare. Those bulging eyes are a thing that will forever haunt me. One side of its hideous face melted completely away to show nothing but bone and blood that drips from it. I can see why it chooses to use other people’s faces._

_“YOU’RE A FOOL, ROGER DAVIS!” Its true voice is a grating screech. Its true face is pressed against mine, “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE OUT HERE! AND WHEN YOU DO, IT WILL KILL HIM!”_

_And the darkness takes over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> petition for adam pascal to sing a cover of summer of '69


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand mark is even sadder

Mark’s P.O.V

“How did we get here, huh Angel?” 

The cemetery’s always quiet this late at night. I used to be afraid to come out here when it was dark, in fear of being mugged. But tonight, I don’t care. Anything to keep me out of my house. Because that house feels so empty and so cold without Roger on the sofa, half-heartedly playing his guitar. How can I sleep in that bed? The bed that we used to curl up in together during winter.

“How did this happen? How did it all get so bad that I wouldn’t even notice him disappear?” I ask the gravestone, which of course, provides no answer.

“Me and Collins have done all we can.” I say, “We’ve put up missing posters all around town and we’ve put Joanne’s number on them all because her phone’s always on.”

I have one of the missing posters in my hand now. It hurts me to look at it. The picture of Roger makes him look so happy. He has the widest smile, and his green eyes are lit up with joy. I can’t remember the last time I was able to make him smile like that. I can’t remember the last time I just talked to him, instead of working.

“I miss him Angel. I want him to come back before...before it’s too late.” I sniff and wipe at the tears that want to escape, “I can’t bear the thought of him dying somewhere alone, without even knowing that I’m sorry, thinking that no one even bothered to find him.”

I read the poster for the millionth time today.

_“Missing person._

_Roger Davis_

_Male_

_20 years_

_Any sighting please ring us on (123)456-7890 or (555)555-1234"_

I don’t hold much hope that anyone will find him. He’s probably hiding. I just want him back. And if I can’t have that, I just want to see him one more time. Even if I have to see him as a weak projection of himself, like Angel was the last time I saw her. I want one chance to apologise to him. 

“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask the grave as orange leaves fall from the great oak tree above me. 

“It’s Autumn.” I say, “It’s starting to get cold. And if he hasn’t found somewhere to stay, I don’t know how he can survive in this weather.” 

The wind blows harder and I shiver despite my thin coat. I’m sure it’s just in my head, but this seems to be the coldest Autumn I’ve lived through. It’s colder without Roger next to me. 

Autumn is so cold and now I have to get through it without him.

“Is he okay?” I’m crying, “Is he alive Angel?” 

Angel can’t tell me. Angel is dead. Maybe Roger is too. My mind is a mess. All there is in there are all these horrific thoughts that Roger and Angel are reunited by now, that he’s died in the cold without ever knowing how much I wanted him back with me. I can’t deal with these thoughts. He’s so young. Sure, he’s fucked up in the past, but he never deserved this nightmare that we’re living. 

“Tell me if he’s okay!” I yell at the grave. I’m sure I can feel my heart shatter even more with each breath I take, “Tell me! Please!”

I’m on the grass, yelling at someone who’s been dead for almost a year, someone who probably can’t hear me, and even if she can hear, there’s nothing she can do.

“I'm sorry Angel.” I say, “I just want to see him again. I want to see his dumb, sulky face and hear his annoyingly whiny voice.”

The thing that’s bothering me most is the fact that I can’t even remember the last time me and Roger talked. He’s always asleep when I leave for work in the morning and asleep again by the time I’m home. Recently, we seem to have been living in our own time zones, our own worlds. We've been so far apart.

Every morning I check on him. I see him in that bed, lying under a heap of blankets. I see the way he seems peaceful, so much happier than whenever he’s awake. It's easy to ignore how tightly his eyes are squeezed shut, because he still looks calm. And that’s enough to stop me from waking him to say bye.

And now it’s too late. Karma has come back to bite me in the worst possible way. Because I always chose to not say bye, it’s doing this to me now – sending him away without even giving me a chance to say it. As if I didn’t need it rubbing in my face what a bad friend I’ve been. To someone who I couldn’t even see needed helping  
.  
“Is it my fault?” I ask, “Is it my fault that he’s gone?” 

Silence. Of course, there’s silence. Of fucking course. This is real life. And in real life, when someone you love leaves you, you end up in a graveyard, talking to an angel, hearing only the birds. Because what else will I hear? Angel’s voice drifting out of the clouds? Angel appearing to me in spirit form? Angel telling me that Roger’s alive? This isn’t another one of your films, Cohen. Get a grip of reality. 

I need to face the facts: Roger has run away to God-knows-where and Angel won’t help because she’s buried under the ground. 

“Are you watching over us?” I ask.

I’m in two minds. In one way, I’d love to think that Angel is looking down, making sure Roger is okay and seeing us live our lives. I’d love for her to see how we carry her in our hearts. But at the same time, I hate the thought of it. Because that means she’s seen Collins struggling because I didn’t honour her promise of making sure he keeps living. That means she’s seen me gradually staying away from the loft so much that my friend thought I didn’t care about him.

That means she’s seen us all slip away. She’s seen us all hurt and fail each other time and time again.

I’m ashamed. Our lives are one great dramatic movie playing in the grand cinema that is heaven. Angel watches our film, our lives, and sees everything unravelling more each day. 

“I’m sorry Angel.” I say, “I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to help Collins for you.”

This is something I’ve never mentioned during my frequent trips to the cemetery. I just feel the need to clear the air. I want to get all my apologies out now. Well, all of them except for the most important one. That one will have to wait until I see Roger again. And I will see him again. I’m going to make sure of it.

“I’m going to try harder.” I smile faintly at the grave, “I’m going to help Collins and I’m going to find Roger and I’m going to make you proud.” 

And I know it’s just a combination of the beer I drank, the chill of the wind, and the traumatic events of the week, but I’m sure I hear Angel’s voice in the breeze. 

_“I’m already proud of you honey.”_

…

I’m starting to hate that missing poster. New York is dark as I reluctantly head home, but the car headlights make sure to illuminate every single one of the posters I pinned to walls and information boards earlier.

Every time I see his smile, I feel a part of me slip away. Every time I read his name I hate myself for getting us into this mess. But more than anything, when I see his face, I think of the memories and I desperately want to know how he is.

I’m sure that soon enough I’ll get through the grief phase of my loss. I don’t want it to happen, but I know that at some point I’ll reach anger. And when I get there, I’ll find myself cursing his name, wanting to wring his neck and yell at him for abandoning me. 

Even if I don’t really mean any of it. 

I walk so much faster tonight. I don’t know why, because it’s not like I want to get back to the loft. I really don’t. It’s not a place for one person. 

Before I know it, I’m staring at the stairs. It’s freezing out here and probably won’t be any warmer in there. Plus, I hate standing out here, vulnerable to anyone who would wrongly assume I have money to be taken. But I don’t think I can go in.

There was a time when I would’ve called Collins. I would’ve asked him to spend the night. And he would’ve said yes, of course. Because he wouldn’t want me alone. I know that if I called now, he would still say yes. But I can’t do that to him. I can’t dump all of my problems on a man who has plenty of his own. 

I tighten the scarf around my neck and breathe deep, starting to climb the stairs. 

How many flights?

1.

2.

3.

4.

So, so quiet.

5.

6.

7.

8.

So many stairs.

9.

10.

The door. 

The door, the same as ever. While everything else has changed, this ugly slab of metal has managed to stay the same. This noisy, creaky, disruptive door is now a thing of familiarity, a thing of comfort. Of a comfort I can get nowhere else.

I push it. It slides left, letting out that horrible grinding, scratching noise. I remember how Roger would complain about the door. Some days the first thing I heard when I arrived was, “Next time I will fucking murder that useless sheet of shit.”

But that was back when I got home while he was awake. When I worked reasonable hours. Back when we still talked. When I still had time for him.

I remember this one time when he joked that it was him or that door, they couldn’t co-exist peacefully, one of them had to go before he started a nuclear war on it. Well, I guess it was true. Him or the door. He’s gone and the door’s still here.

The door won. 

I would've taken his nuclear war over this.

All I want to see when I open the door is Roger. On the sofa. Asleep under a pile of blankets or tuning his guitar or scribbling out lyrics he’s unhappy with. I want to see him and I want him to see me. 

But the room is empty. It’s silent. The blankets are dumped on the floor and the rickety door to the bedroom is wide open. 

It's stupid, I know. But I'm just waiting for Roger to jump out from somewhere and say, "tricked you asshole." And then he'd smirk at me, that smug little look that always got me embarrassed.

His note is still lying on the table. That note is his entire presence in this building. It's all that's left. 

My camera's on the sofa. The sofa that still has a dent in it from all the times he slumped down into it. 

I don't want to look at my camera. I know that it's full of pictures and videos of him. I've been filming him more and more in an attempt to immortalise him when he's gone.

But I never thought "gone" would come so soon. I imagined us having a few more years together before the only version of his face I had was the one saved in my camera. 

I don't want to look at my camera because that is like accepting that he's gone forever. Those videos are meant to be his legacy, to look back on when he’s with Angel again.

I can’t watch my videos. I can’t look at my camera. I can’t give up here. I can’t give him up into the hands of death. He’s out there. I’ll find him and I’ll take more pictures of him and we can look at these old ones together. 

Playing the films will mean giving up. I’m not giving up on him yet. Not when I know he’s out there. 

The phone’s flashing red and I know that light from anywhere. Someone’s called and left voicemail. 

I allow myself a second of hope. On the missing poster, I put mine and Joanne’s number. Maybe someone’s seen Roger and tried to call me.

But when I hear the voice, my heart sinks. Funny, really. A year ago I was so hung up on this woman that I would’ve swooned over the notion of her calling me. Now, there’s no space for anything but disappointment inside me. 

“Hey pookie, I’m really sorry to call while you’re at work.” Maureen’s recording says, “I know you’re busy. Marky, I heard about Roger. I really hope you’re okay. I know things have been tense recently, but I want you to know that there’s always a space in my home. Call back baby. I’ll help you find him.”

And I’m still down that the call wasn’t news on Roger’s status, but I’m more positive than before. I know that Maureen is a master of deception and she’s probably only doing this to gain something. But maybe she’s trying to fix her mistakes. Maybe she really does want to help me. Maybe she’s changed.

I pick up the phone.

“Hey Maureen. I heard your message. I was wondering if you want to meet up tomorrow? 12 o’clock is my lunch break so maybe then? There are some things I need to say.”

Maybe I can even help her repair her relationship with Joanne and finally please Angel.

…

It’s so quiet and I hate it. The bed’s so cold and I find myself wishing that I’d accepted Maureen’s offer and spent the night at her place. But then again, maybe it’s like before. Maybe she just wants sex out of me.

I used to know what to expect when it came to nighttime. 

There were two different types of nights. 

There was the one where Roger would sleep. He’d be asleep on the sofa when I got home, often with pieces of paper strewn across his body. Sometimes he’d stir when he heard me and he’d sit up and crack me a tired smile, ask how my day was, and go back to sleep. Or sometimes he slept deeply and I did nothing but throw an extra blanket on his shoulders. 

Then there were the nights when he didn’t sleep. He’d spend hours pacing and pacing if he was worried about something. Or he’d try to play his guitar - God, that guitar annoyed the fuck out of me, but I’d give anything to hear it now - and then I’d hear quiet crying when he gave up.

On the nights where he didn’t sleep, I would get out of bed and I’d hug him and everything was okay. 

On the colder nights when he did sleep, we’d get in the same bed together to stay warm and everything was okay.

The fact is that I knew what night would bring. I knew it would be one of the two options and I knew how to handle both. 

But this, this horrible aching in my heart and this eerie silence, this is a third option. A new option. It’s unfamiliar. And I don’t know how to handle this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost feel bad for being so mean to my babies. but come on people, this is a rent fanfiction, do you really expect happy stuff? ;)


	6. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roger is my baby okay
> 
> warning: mentions of past suicide

Roger’s P.O.V

I stay true to my word. And I know I don’t imagine the surprise and the happiness in that homeless man’s eyes as I start to get my guitar out in the plaza. I bet he thought I’d forget. As if I have better things to do with my ever-decreasing time on Earth.

I can tell he wants to come and talk to me again, but by some miracle he restrains himself and settles for smiling at me from his corner. I feel good for impressing him. The sensation inside me is one I never would’ve felt before.

It’s still so hot here. The sun’s beating down on me and I can feel the warmth seeping through the holes in the soles of my boots. Autumn in Santa Fe feels like Summer in New York. Does it ever get cold here? 

A few people are walking past me, going about their days as usual. I know that some recognise me from the way they stare. They were either here yesterday or have heard about the guy who wastes his life performing from friends who did see. 

I think this is the earliest I’ve ever woken up. This morning I saw the sunrise. Normally I sleep well into the afternoon and only ever get to experience sunset. It made a nice change, despite the reason why I was awake so early.

I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Not surprising, considering the fact that it’s more comfortable than the beds back in New York. My body was sore when I woke up from the twisted position I’d slept in. 

I’m trying to forget the dream. I convinced myself this morning that it isn’t real. That monster isn’t real and it’s words are lies. Mark doesn’t miss me and there’s not going to be whatever the hell disaster it keeps warning me about. It’s all a load of shit and I’m not naive enough to fall for its tricks. 

I won’t let fear take control of me. 

I brush hair out of my eyes, trying to ignore how dry it feels and stop myself from thinking back to how long ago it was washed. That’s something I can do tonight, when I’ve bought shampoo.

If anyone gives me money, that is.

The guitar’s so cool and smooth and it feels so perfect in my hands like this. Even just holding it, it feels so much better than all the hours I spend lying down, the instrument placed on my lap, the stupid notes sounding so so wrong. It makes me feel strong.

I run my fingers along the strings and let the first note ring out. The old man starts to clap, his eyes smiling where his mouth can’t. His support gives me strength. He is the reason I will stay, keep coming back, make this my life. 

He is enough to block out thoughts of my dreams. 

I let my fingers take the lead and they start to move faster than my thoughts. I can’t keep up and I don’t need to. In this moment, I would trust my fingers to play well with my life.

Not that my life is worth much anymore.

But playing here, now, revives me. And as I start to sing, the thrill of it feeling even better than last time, I almost wish I could live. Because death is something to fear, when you’re living so freely.

…

$40. 

I made $40 today.

I’m in some little store. It’s only small but it has a grocery section and a pharmacy. I’m in the fridge aisle, enjoying the cold blow of the fans. It’s so weird. Santa Fe is a different world. In New York, I never once would have been drawn to something to help me cool down.

I’m starting to notice that maybe this isn’t the place to be wearing a leather jacket. I don’t remember the last time I sweated and it’s a very strange sensation. But I’d rather overheat than take the jacket off. Even if wearing it is getting me a few confused glances.

In New York, it’s an everyday occurrence to see another amateur rockstar, another punk, another stripper. But I’m getting the feeling that in Santa Fe, that isn’t so normal. That must be why the woman behind the desk is viewing me with a mix of fear and awe.

I’m half tempted to be an asshole and growl at her or something to send her scurrying away, taking that immense curiosity with her. That’ll teach her to keep her eyes to herself.

But I settle for a small smile. I’d rather people here respect me than be running away. I’ll try to be humane, at least for now. 

The list in my hand tells me exactly what I need to buy but it’d help if I could read my own handwriting. Oh well. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. 

Singing on the street is a drug. It feels so good, especially seeing an even bigger, more enthusiastic crowd today. News must really travel fast here. It’s a drug but instead of robbing me of money, it pays me. And it has none of the dreadful side effects. 

_Things to buy:_

_Food_

_Hair shit (brush, shampoo etc.)_

_Razor_

_Eyeliner (???)_

_VERY cheap clothes (depends)_

When I say food, I mean the worst canned and frozen food there is. You know, the kind of stuff that tastes like slop but you have to sacrifice taste buds because it’s eat that or die. I’m used to eating that shit. 

There’s suddenly this muffled beeping noise from my jean pocket and I know it’s the sound I’ve been ignoring for the past couple of days, which admittedly is a very dangerous decision on my behalf. But is my brain really functioning properly? Surely it’s understandable.

Okay, I’ll admit that neglecting to take my AZT is probably the reason I’m looking so worn down. Those pills are pretty much my lifeline. It’s like I’m dead already and each time I swallow one, I’m temporarily revived. Until I die again and take one again.

The cycle’s endless.

I haven’t been taking them because I didn’t see the point. Why bother taking pills to keep me alive for just that little bit longer, when in the long run, I’m only going to die anyway?

A lot of people would be concerned with my apathy for death. I was once. Now it’s just routine: I wake up, I contemplate death, I don’t think about the future, I sleep. 

I can imagine Mark’s reaction if he found out I hadn’t been taking my AZT. He’d kill me himself. I’m pretty sure he wrote on his calendar to remind him of every time he had to force the stuff down my throat. Either that or he had an inbuilt alarm telling him to look after me. 

I pull the little bag out my pocket, turning my back on the woman behind the desk. She seems freaked out enough by this outlandish person rocking up to her shop, she doesn’t need to know I’ve got a stupid sex disease. Even if that’s not how I got it. 

Hell, it’d probably be even worse if she knew how I got it. I bet they don’t even have heroin in this perfect little town. 

Despite all my reckless, careless thoughts, I make myself take the tiny pills. Maybe they’ll buy me an extra day that I can spend singing in the plaza. 

They get stuck in my throat, reminding me so clearly of why I hate taking these things. It’s too much to say I’d rather die painfully than take medicine, but they’re close in terms of painful punishment.

I guess this life is all just one huge punishment. It’s putting me through all this because I was young and stupid once and I thought that doing drugs with my girlfriend would make me cool. All it really did was make me sick and make the rest of my time alive a living hell.

It’s my fault really. I know that. I’m the one who told April to do heroin. I told her it’d be fun. Before that it was innocent. It was just weed and alcohol and it wasn’t killing us. But I got that needle and I found her bleeding in that bathtub and I doomed myself to a life of disease.

I’m a terrible person. 

Well, I was a terrible person. In New York. I was a horrible, horrible person. I forced everyone away and I hit people when I was high and I cried and made other people cry too. And I disappointed them all when I went back to drugs, I let them down over and over again. 

Running away is the last disappointment. They’re safe from me now. 

Here I can be a good person. Look at me now, being self-sufficient, buying food, I’m outside and living for God’s sake. I’m so much better. I’m taking my AZT without Mark the guardian angel making me. I’m living like Angel and entertaining all the people who gather to see me in Santa Fe plaza. 

I bet no one from home would recognise me now. If they saw me, almost crying over that homeless man, they would never believe that I’m the same person who gave himself AIDS from his own foolishness, who locked himself inside for too much of his life.

“Excuse me, miss.” I say and the woman’s head flips around so fast it looks like it should fall off, “Can you show me where the cheapest food is?” 

She practically leaps out of her seat, face flushed as she says, “Yes of course!” 

And wow, this woman is thirsty. Either she doesn’t get many young men walk in her shop, or she’s just got a very specific type she’s attracted to. Because she is practically tripping over herself trying to impress me. 

I suddenly understand the metaphor “drooling over someone.” I never understood how someone could do that. But I see very clearly now. It’s not drooling, exactly. It’s more a famished dog that’s chasing after a piece of meat. 

And it’s kind of scary.

“Here.” She says, smiling sweetly at me, “It’s not very nice, but it’s cheap.”

And this is an aisle I definitely feel at home in. These are foods I can afford. I don’t even care if she’s judging me now for buying the worst stuff in the shop. All I need is the feeling of knowing my place, knowing exactly where I am and where I belong.

I start to pick some things off the shelf. Canned food. Food you don’t even have to cook. Food that tastes disgusting but sustains you. 

The woman’s still stood next to me, adjusting her flowery skirt and picking at her hair. She’s beginning to make me feel quite uncomfortable. I used to dream of this; groupies following me, admiring me, wanting me. But wow, if fame comes with creeps like this, I’m almost glad I’m dying too early to get a taste of it.

“Can I help you?” I ask, turning to her. I’m very aware how pissed off I look. And I couldn’t care less. I don’t need a stalker.

“Oh! No, no! I, uh, I just wanted to say that I think you sing very well.” She looks so nervous suddenly, as she smiles encouragingly at me. It’s a smile that’s very clearly testing the waters, figuring out what she can and can’t say.

It’s a smile that makes me feel bad for snapping. And again, with the sudden sympathy, the emotions I’m so unfamiliar with feeling. 

“Thanks.” I try to smile at her. I don’t know what the smile looks like, but she seems to relax, so it must be okay. 

I throw a few more tins into the basket and when I turn she’s still there. 

I blink and she blinks and it’s all so awkward that I want nothing more than to curl up and hide. Which is confusing in itself, because I am never awkward. Well, until now. 

“You’re singing again tomorrow?” She asks. She looks so hopeful. 

“Yeah.” I say, “I am.”

“Great!” She squeals, then tries to compose herself, “Uh, I’m Karessa by the way.” 

I go for a smile again, “Roger.” I say.

“I know.” Karessa giggles. She’s cute and all, but if she’s trying to hit on me, I’m going to have to break her little heart. I’m not after a relationship here. I can’t make her see me die either.

There’s a tense silence and for a second I’m convinced she’s about to ask for an autograph or something. But she just smiles again and skips back over to the desk.

“Shout me if you need any help!” She says. And there’s too much excitement in that voice. 

Who knew the decomposing ex-junkie look was so popular in Santa Fe? I’d never have guessed.

I leave the aisle, ignoring the way Karessa’s eyes burn into the back of my head. Even though I’m not interested in her, I’m wishing I’d been able to do my hair this morning. I look like a stray dog. 

Next aisle. Don’t look. Full of alcohol. Walk on. 

Those are the exact words that fly through my head when I see it. My mind is screaming at me to stay away, to not do this to myself again. It tells me there are things here that I can enjoy without being drunk. 

I want to believe it. I want to believe it so badly. But old habits die hard, and it’s so hard to keep myself away. 

One bottle. One bottle can’t do any harm. It’s only beer. 

But that’s how it always is. It always starts as beer. Harmless enough. But it always gets stronger; just like the drugs did. I tell myself it’s only a glass, then only a bottle, and then it ends up an entire boat load.

It’s the money that keeps me away. I have $40, 10 of which are already going toward food. I need to save as much as possible so that I don’t end up kicked out of the hotel. I’m here for essentials only. And all alcohol is going to do is drain my wallet and make me feel awful.

I move on. 

This shop doesn’t sell clothes, so they’re no longer an option. And to be honest, I wasn’t exactly expecting to find anything. I can make do. If I have to go naked, so be it.

Shampoo. Easy. Cheapest one there. I don’t care what special features it has. What differences do “softens dry hair”, “refreshes curls” and “dries oily hair” make anyway? It’s shampoo. It’s not legendary. All it needs to do is wash my hair and get rid of that smell. 

A hairbrush is only a dollar, so I pick one of them up too. Maybe my hair isn’t a lost cause. I might be able to rescue it with this dollar magic. 

Karessa’s watching me the whole time and it’s sort of unnerving. This is not what I imagined fans would be like. No offense or anything. She seems sweet, but I’d really appreciate it if she’d stop looking at me for a second. 

The toiletry aisle. Okay. Plastic razor, one dollar. Great. 

I find myself staring longingly at the hair dye next to it. I remember when I used to bleach my hair. It’s been so long and it’s mostly gone back to a vaguely brown colour now. I would love to be able to dye it again, go back to the days singing in the pubs that smelt of sweat and weed and beer. When April sat at the table, watching me fight to be heard over the rowdy men around her. Those days weren’t amazing, but at least I wasn’t dying.

But I know I can’t buy any. I’m saving my money. Hair dye is a luxury, not a necessity. 

However, I manage to spare an extra dollar to buy some eyeliner. Come on, humour me here. I’m dying and I’d like to go out in style. I’d rather crash and burn spectacularly than fade away unnoticed.

“For a girl?” Karessa asks when she taps the price of the eyeliner into the cash machine. 

“No.” I say flatly.

I don’t imagine the relief in her brown eyes.

…

I seem to be spending a lot of time in front of this mirror. Maybe it’s because we never had one back in New York, or maybe it’s just because I’m still in shock over how I look.

I have to say, I feel better about myself than I did last night. I just finished having a shower - a warm shower, the first one I can remember - and my hair is looking less sorry for itself. It’s still in need of a cut, but it’s thicker and curlier and more how it used to be.

The eyeliner has been applied and I really see why I used to love the stuff so much. I’m definitely ready to perform tomorrow, maybe looking less homeless and more “rugged.”

I’m still tired and there’s still bags under my eyes. I almost wish I’d looked for sleeping pills in the pharmacy, but I remind myself that’s wasting money that I don’t have. I can put up with the dreams. It’s a sacrifice worth making if it means I get a place to stay. 

Yeah, I’m still too skinny, but I can’t do anything about that. It’s to be expected coming from a life of poverty and a disease that’s destroying me. 

But all in all, I’m looking better. I may be dying but I’d at least like to look alive. 

For the first time since I arrived, I’m feeling almost optimistic. Tomorrow’s going to be great. I’m going to sing and I’m going to live and I’m going to look good while doing it. 

“Thank you Angel.” I say quietly, “Thank you for leading me here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> roger has simps


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maureen is sad too now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhh t/w for past drug abuse

Mark’s P.O.V

“Marky!” 

I almost don’t recognise her. 

It’s Maureen, of course. But she looks so different. Well, not exactly. She’s still wearing a crop top and cardigan and tight jeans. Her hair’s still long and wavy and her lips are still red and soft (probably. It was so long ago when I last kissed her).

But her face is wrong. It’s scrunched up with worry and sadness. I’ve never seen Maureen look anything other than smug or flirty. This alone is proof that my world has fallen apart.

“Hey baby, how are you doing?” She asks me gently, wrapping me up in an affectionate hug. 

This is wrong on so many levels. Maureen is a self-centred, petty bitch. She does not do sympathy, she does not do love, she does not do hugs. She does sex and lying and trickery. She gets you wrapped around her finger and then she stabs your heart. She does not know how to care. 

But I still find myself hugging back. This is all just one big act, I know that. She wants something out of me. But I’m willing to play along until I find out exactly what that something is.

“I’m not really sure.” I say, trying to block out the scent of strawberries in her hair.

“You want to come inside?” She asks me kindly, “I have coffee.” 

Maureen never invites you into her home unless it’s for sex. She is playing a game with me. She thinks that she can fool me with all this staged kindness and concern. But I know her. I know that Maureen never does anything unless she thinks it’s going to be good for her.

Yet, I still follow her inside. Maybe it’s because I’m not over her. Maybe it’s because I’ve been hurt so much already that I don’t think anything can make this worse. Or maybe it’s to see if she does as promised on the voicemail, if she really is interested in finding Roger.

Or if she just used that to get me in her house.

I sit down on the sofa that I haven’t been on for so long and feel a brief pang of compassion towards Maureen. She’s also living alone in a house that was meant for two people. Is she haunted by the memories of the time when Joanne was around, just like I am with Roger? Are we in the same position after all?

“Here you go.” She says, smiling sadly and sitting next to me. 

“Thanks.” 

It’s obvious now that Maureen isn’t trying to get anything from me. Because if this was any other day, she would have that cheeky, suggestive smile and her hand would rest on my leg and there’d be a predatory hunger in her eyes.

But today all I see is the resigned silhouette of a heartbroken, misunderstood woman. There’s no ulterior motives behind the weight in her eyes, no twitching in her hands that gives away her plots. There’s just hurt and defeat and a deflated look that gorgeous, spiteful Maureen Johnson should not be wearing.

“I know we’ve not been on the best terms pookie, but I do want to help you.” She says quietly, turning those damaged eyes to look into mine. 

“Not on the best terms?” I ask. 

I feel a clammy hand slide into mine. And it’s not like all the other times she flirted with me, dragging me wherever she wanted to go. This is just a hand that says, “I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong.” And right now, I love her for that. 

“Yeah baby.” She sighs, “Like how you’re on Joanne’s team in the War of the Lesbians.” She laughs quietly, frowning as she messes with her bright pink nails.

“What?” I ask. Is she blaming me? I thought this was about helping me, not grilling me because of crimes I may or may not have committed. I can’t believe I fell for her pity party.

“I’m not accusing you.” She says tiredly, and it scares me how much she sounds like Collins, “I’ve just missed you. You go and visit Joanne. I’ve seen you at the Life Cafe together. I think it’s great that you two are friends, but I just sometimes wish you wanted to be around me like you do with her.”

I’m shocked. She’s noticed. I can’t even deny it. Yes, I like to grab a drink with Joanne occasionally (she gets me to let her pay every time). And yes, I’ve been avoiding talking to Maureen since she broke up with me. I just didn’t think she was observant enough to pay attention to my lunch break habits. 

“And it’s like, ever since we lost Angel, you want nothing to do with me.” My heart stops when I hear her choked voice. The tears are building up in her eyes and I don’t know what to do to stop them from falling, just like I couldn’t stop Angel dying and Roger running away. 

“You didn’t even bother to tell me about Roger.” Her voice breaks and she tries to disguise it with a cough, “I had to hear that he’d gone from Mimi.” 

Maureen’s crying now. My arms are hanging awkwardly by my side and they suddenly seem far too long and useless. I know this is the moment to hug her, but that selfish part of me is sneering and telling me that this is what she deserves for being so cruel to Joanne, that she needs to know what it feels like to suffer. 

What am I doing? I’m as bad as her. All this time, I’ve thought of myself as the better person. She’s been the villain. But now my thoughts are as bitter as I bet hers are. I still care about this woman, no matter what she’s done to me in the past. 

“I’m sorry Maureen, it’s just...with Angel and everything…”

“No!” She yells, standing up and knocking the mug on the floor. It smashes on the tile and hot drink spills everywhere, “Stop! I can’t do this anymore Mark! You and Collins and Mimi - you’re all acting like you’re the only ones allowed to be upset, allowed to miss her! But what about me? Angel was my friend too!”

“I never said-”

“I don’t care!” She shouts, tears rolling down her face, “You’re all so busy feeling sorry for yourselves, wallowing in your pain! You forget about me! Angel was my friend too!”

And she’s got her arms around me, sobbing into my scarf and holding me so tightly it’s like she’ll die if she lets go, like I’m the the anchor keeping her in place.

I guess, in some terrifying and twisted way, Maureen has a point. I’d never been aware of any relationship between her and Angel. I’d never stopped to wonder how she would be affected by the death. I only thought of the obvious: Collins, me, Roger, Mimi. 

It doesn’t seem unreasonable that Angel and Maureen were friends though. Angel was friends with everyone she shared a single conversation with. She’d talk to you once, and leave you with the words “stay in touch?” on your lips. 

Maureen’s right. I’ve overlooked her. I’ve not even given her a chance to share her side of Angel’s story. Thinking about it now, I can picture her and Angel. Probably talking about how they’re going to revolutionise the fashion industry together. They would’ve made quite a pair.

“My God.” I whisper, “Maureen, I’m so sorry.” 

I find my arms are hugging her, stroking circles into her back as her body trembles in a display of emotions I never thought Maureen was capable of feeling. I’ve misjudged her for so long.

“Do you hate me?” She asks, so quietly that I almost doubt she said it at all.

Silence. Do I hate her? For years I’ve lived with dark memories, with fury aimed at her. I wanted to hate her, ever since she told me that she couldn’t love me anymore because she was lesbian. I wanted to hate her more than anything else in the world.

But there’s something endearing about the woman who walks around in Autumn in cropped clothes like she doesn’t feel the chill, who’s willing to get up on a stage and moo in front of people just to help me keep my home. She may have messed with my heart and made me cry before, but I could never hate her. 

She’s not the monster I previously wanted to see her as. She’s troubled and she’s had no one here to talk to. 

“No.” I tell her, “I don’t hate you.”

“Joanne does.” She laughs humourlessly, “I gave her good reason to. I flirted with someone at our pre-wedding party.”

“She doesn’t-”

“Save it.” She says coldly, “I’m accepting my mistakes here Mark.”

She looks down at the mess of coffee on the floor and her cheeks colour with shame.

“I love her so much Mark. I love her so much and I’m so bad at showing it.” Her eyes are swimming with tears again, “I’ve been so horrible to her. I’ve given her no reason to love me back. I’ve scared her away and I can’t live with the person I’ve become.”

She pauses to blink away tears and I don’t try to interrupt. I know she wants to get this out. I haven’t been there for her before, but I will be now.

“I want to change.” She says quietly, “I want to be better. I want to be the kind of person that Joanne wants to love.” 

She lets out this devastating noise that can only be described as pure misery and I want to cry with her. 

“Help me.” She says in a croaky whisper, “Help me make things up to her.”

She breaks down again and this time I’m the one who initiates the hug. She squeezes back gratefully and that’s how we sit for a minute; the only sound is her raspy sobs and uneven breaths, and all I feel is the rapid beating of her heart and the moisture of her tears.

“How did this happen?” She whispers in my ear, still engaged in the hug, “Everything’s a mess Marky. Angel’s gone and now Roger is too. I’m scared. Who’s next?”

It’s her certainty that kills me. In Maureen’s wounded mind, Roger is in the same place as Angel. She has no hope of him coming back. I feel ridiculous for ever daring to think that he might be alive, when things are so clear to Maureen.

And who is next? Soon enough, our family will be even smaller. It can’t be too long before it’s only me, Maureen and Joanne left. Who can tell which of us will see Angel first? Who can tell which of us will outlive the rest - be the witness to such a horrible chain of events? 

I focus on Maureen’s gentle breathing in my hair. All this time I thought she didn’t even bat an eye towards anyone else’s problems, when really, she’s just as scared about the future as I am.

“I’ll help.” I say, “I promise I’ll help you fix things with Joanne.”

Even if she’s given up on helping me find Roger.

…

I don’t know when I came to the roof or why my feet were so adamant I go up here, where the wind blows more ferociously than anywhere else. 

I don’t want to see the sky right now, but I also don’t want to be inside, surrounded by frames from history that play on repeat behind my eyes, but are always just out of the reach of my desperate hands.

The sky always looks nicer at this time; less smog, more stars. It always seems incredible to me that New York can become a gateway to the cosmos while the rest of the city is too busy sleeping to see.

This was our time. Roger wasn’t a morning person. He rarely saw mornings at all. Always slept in too late, no matter how many times I told him a healthy sleep schedule was important. He would roll his eyes, say, “okay mum” and grin at me. 

He never saw a sunrise, so sunset became this important event. The staple of our day. Back when I didn’t work so much, I would grab some crackers out the cupboard and drag him up to sit on the deck chairs on the roof. Just in time to see the sun set - our own little portal leading us to a better reality.

His face would light up every time and I would find myself reaching out to hold his hand, just like Maureen held mine earlier. 

The sunset was ours. We were the masters of whatever was beyond that. We were the ones lucky enough to see such a beautiful sight. Watching all those colours above us, we were invincible. We may have been hungry and shivering, but we were happy on the roof together. 

I remember one day when Roger seemed so much more awake than ever before. I think that it was after a hard patch, after yet another bump in the road caused by drug withdrawals. We had been flung into a life of waking up at midnight, him shaking and sweating and vomiting and crying. I was frightened out of my mind that I would lose him. 

That night on the roof, it was the first time he’d spoken to me for a week. He’d looked at me with green eyes that seemed to be opening for the first time. And he’d smiled and stood up. 

I hadn’t noticed him pull out the guitar, but I heard him singing. And the words sunk deep into my flesh, got my blood flowing for the first time in so, so long. I don’t remember now what he sang for me that night, whether it was something he’d written or not. But I remember the clarity in my head as I decided:

This is a love song. And it’s not about Mimi or April.

I shouldn’t be watching the sunset tonight without him. I shouldn’t be up here alone on one of the two deck chairs. 

I wonder, is Roger watching the sunset where he is? Is he thinking about all the time we spent up here? Does he remember the song?

Does he remember the words he whispered to me at the end of the night, when the alcohol had muddled with his thoughts. The words that filled my dreams for weeks after, even I knew they were just a drunk man’s meaningless confessions.

_“Hey Mark. You know, sometimes I really want to kiss you. Right now. Thank you...for putting up with me. Can you...can you promise that you’ll never give up on me?”_

Those words are the reason why I can’t have Maureen’s certain pessimism. 

I promised not to give up on him. Roger isn’t dead.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> t/w drugs and past suicide

Roger’s P.O.V

The sun’s setting. Sunset looks different in Santa Fe. It’s nothing like those peaceful evenings on the roof with Mark that I’m supposed to be forgetting about. 

There aren’t as many cars here and the roads are quiet. The sunset arguably looks prettier; more colours are visible and there are so many stars dotted against the canvas of the sky.

But it doesn’t feel the same. It probably doesn’t make sense, but this doesn’t feel as personal. In New York, it was just the two of us watching the sky transform into a pulsing bruise of shades. Because everyone else in the city was working or asleep. No one else in New York bothered to look above them. They were too busy looking straight ahead, fixating on the now and never dreaming. 

Here, the town is awake. The sunset is a public thing. It is not mine anymore. I no longer have a special connection with it. It’s available widely and has lost its magic.

I’m glad Mark can’t see this mockery of a sunset. I’m sure it would break him, like it does me. 

I draw back the curtains. I don’t want to look outside, at all the rich business people gazing out into the universe. I don’t want to see them taking something that is so crucial to my past for granted. 

I sit down heavily on the sofa. Those normal, happy people don’t deserve this sunset. It’s not theirs to see. It’s private. It belongs to me and Mark, not them. Never them. 

I need to distract myself before I lose it and shout at them. I can’t do that here. I can’t be known as unstable. No one will pay me. I’ll end up homeless. I’ll die.

It’s confusing. One minute, I’m ready to die. The next, I’m scared to. Death itself doesn’t scare me; it’s just sleeping, finally being able to let go of all the things that I’ve done wrong. It’s what comes after that scares me. Trust me, if I had a guarantee that there’s a life after death, I’d be long gone. 

If I could be sure that I would walk into a beautiful place in the clouds where Angel is waiting to hug me again and tell me she’s missed me, I’d be happy. But there’s the worry that I would die and there’d be nothing. I would have no memories of life to cling onto, no time to see anyone again on the other side, no recollection of who I am. 

That’s why I’m still here. Because the unknown is frightening. And I can’t face the unknown just yet. 

I know that if there is a heaven, and by some miracle I end up there, Angel will be disappointed. I know she’ll hide it, but inside she’ll want to scold me. She’ll want to say, _“Roger. I didn’t die for you to copy me. I died so that you could live. You’ve made the biggest mistake and paid the highest price and you might not regret it just yet, but soon you’ll see that life was worth living after all. And there’s no going back.”_

Those are the words I wish April could’ve heard, that life is worth living and death is permanent so you have eternity to watch people living and wish you were too. 

I wish that April was here. I loved her. But I see our relationship now in a way I couldn’t at the time. I see now that it wasn’t healthy, even before the drugs. We were both broken and were both using each other as a crutch, as a way to cope. We threw our problems on each other and the pile of issues just kept growing and growing because neither of us ever found ways to solve them.

We just got high and hoped that things would be better the next day. Being high made things okay for about an hour. But after the buzz wore off, we would lie silently for a day, our minds sludge, our veins searing and itching and our minds dead. 

Me and April were not healthy for each other but she didn’t deserve death. We should’ve parted ways mutually, but we were too blinded by the desperation we had to be loved to see that we were killing each other. 

I loved her but I hated who I was when I was with her. I hated the arguments and the fights and the booze and the needles. I hated the monster she made me into and I hate myself for having to go one drug stronger each time, until it got to the one that infected us.

My fingers begin to play Musetta’s Waltz, my brain’s default song for when I’m lacking inspiration. Unlike most of the times when I sit down with my guitar, now I really want to write something. Now I have a reason to. I have people who will enjoy it. I have my motivation, now all I need are the lyrics.

Surely, if I try, I can do it. 

String together the chords. Minor chords. A minor. E minor twice. F. E minor for a shorter beat. A minor again. 

Repeat. 

Sad. Powerful. Moving. These are the chords I’ve been searching for. This is my song. 

“It’s easy to run away from feelings. It’s easy to run away alone. It’s easy to put up shields and block out the things you say. It’s easy to forget that you’re my home.”

I don't feel the tears until they reach my lips and the salt fills my mouth. I should not be crying just because I've finally found my song. I should not be crying just because the words are slotting into place in the sunset - mine and Mark's sunset.

I always knew that sunset was my favourite part of the day for a reason. The stars knew it was my destiny to achieve beneath their watchful eyes.

Sunset is the time when big things happen, life changing actions are put into place.

"I've taken a lot for granted. I've taken more from you than I should. I've been selfish, I've been blind. While you've been patient, gentle, kind." 

Strum faster. 

“And I’m slipping far away. I’m running further every day. Can’t do this alone, because you are my home. I’ve been lying to myself, blaming my mistakes on ill health. But it’s cold when the sun’s gone and I beg it’s not too late. You are my home.”

There’s something about the words, about the tune, and the way it feels in my head. This sense of immense déjà vu. The voice at the back of my head screams at me, telling me that I know this song, that this isn’t the first time I’ve sung it, trying to get me to remember. 

I know this song. But from where? I’ve just come up with it now, so how do I recognise it? 

The way my mind is completely stuck is really infuriating. My thoughts have reached this dead end and every cell in my brain is entirely focused on working out where I remember this song from, the song that I’ve just written now, and cried inexplicably while doing so. 

My body remembers things that my mind doesn’t. My tongue remembers the embrace of the words from some other time. My eyes remember the previous time, and made me cry for that; for whatever thing I’d done while singing this before. 

I’m fighting against myself to remember. Because this blocked memory is one from before Santa Fe, and is therefore forbidden. It’s for the best I don’t remember.

Not that I’ve done a very good job following that rule so far. 

But this song, it’s clearly a love song. Not blatant in its declaration of such passion, but it’s about love nonetheless. It’s not like the ones I wrote for April or even the one I wrote for Mimi. This is more subtle, more tender, more real. 

If only I could really feel a love like that - one that was for a person, rather than a substance or an instrument. 

This song is a love song but it’s not for April or Mimi. I’ve heard it before, probably in New York. I want to find out the answers to this mystery, but I’m not supposed to. 

Maybe this song can be ready for tomorrow. Maybe I can sing it for the homeless man and for Karessa and for all the other people who now seem so dependent on hearing my music every day. 

But maybe not. This song is hurting me in a way I’ve been numb too for a long time. Since April died and that small part of my heart shrivelled and rotted, I’ve been deadened to the feeling of love. That’s why Mimi broke up with me, because I didn’t know how to love anymore and she’d lost hope of me ever finding out how to reignite the fire inside. 

And now there’s this song, this painfully familiar song, emerging from out of the black abyss that’s developed in me. Appeared from out of the ever-widening chasm in my heart that April left as a lasting impression of her life. 

I can’t sing this strange love song for people. Not until I know who it’s for. I can’t sell myself out again, when this could be my one shot at another try. I’ll take this song as a sign, as vague as it is in pointing the direction of my journey, and I’ll let it inspire me. 

I’ll let this song give me something that’s been missing from my life ever since the day April left: 

Hope.

…

_Giggles fill the air. Happy, bright and childish. I don’t even have to put two and two together to know where I am. Nowhere else is this dark. The only thing I do wonder is whose body it will be inhabiting tonight._

_When the red-eyes, winged Mimi steps into the single ray of light - the spotlight - I’m almost relieved._

_“You okay with this body?” She asks._

_I’m not okay with it. But I’m not as offended as I was with it as Angel, or as hurt as when it was Mark. Seeing Mimi will make me nothing but guilty for the way I treated her - or more accurately, didn’t treat her. That was the whole problem._

_But guilt is a feeling I’m more accustomed to. My body has developed guilt antibodies. I’m immune._

_“So, you’re okay with what you did to her?” It asks._

_Mimi’s body is dressed in her work clothes - nothing more than her underwear. Bra, pants and fishnet tights. This is fine. This is just another show she puts on for random men. This I can cope with._

_“No.” I say._

_It grins, the candle that’s appeared in its hands illuminating the smile and the glint in its eyes._

_“You feel bad for hurting her.” It says. A statement, not question, “You wish you could’ve been more open and stopped her from leaving you. You wish you’d been better. You wish you could’ve helped her.”_

_“Yes.”_

_This creature’s power over me is stronger. I tried to deny it before, but now I’ve given in. It knows things about me and I can’t pretend it doesn’t. I may not believe it’s creepy prophecies, but I’ll admit that it doesn’t always lie._

_“But you don’t wish you were still dating.” It says thoughtfully, “I wonder why that is.”_

_I can’t look up. I know that this isn’t Mimi, but those are still her eyes - the eyes that I wrote a song about. If I look into her eyes, I’ll remember all the times I said things to her that I didn’t mean, all the days when I turned her away and left her distraught, all the times I wasn’t able to be enough. I don’t want to see the emotional scars, even if they’re all just details in my imagination, that I left her with._

_“I don’t know.” I say._

_The thing puts a finger under my chin and forces my head up. And there in those eyes is the great burden of heartbreak. Because of me. This may not be Mimi, but I’m sure that the real her has the same eyes as she falls in love with Benny._

_And then the eyes - Mimi’s eyes - are creasing up and glowing as her face breaks into a smile. A smile that I was never able to bring to Mimi, but one that I know Benny is right now._

_I struggle to get out of its hold. I can’t look in her eyes. I can’t see the happiness there that I wasn’t able to conjure. My neck feels like it’s going to snap if I fight any harder. I can hear my muscles crying out in agony. I’m going to crumble and break in this land of horror._

_“I know why you don’t want to be with her anymore!” It laughs, letting go off my face, “I know why and you don’t!”_

_It doubles over laughing, finding my apparent ignorance hilarious. I rub at my neck, trying to soothe the burning in the muscles. I turn on it, glaring._

_“Tell me.” I say._

_It leans in front of me, still giggling hysterically. Hearing that come out of Mimi’s mouth makes me feel uncomfortable._

_“Oh, so scary!” It exclaims dramatically, “Please, Roger! Don’t hurt me! Spare me your positively chilling stare! I’m trembling!”_

_“Shut up.” I mumble, looking at the floor again. Normally, if I glared at someone, they’d back off and leave me alone. But this thing knows how my brain works. It knows what goes on in my head. It knows when I’m pretending to be something I’m not._

_It knows how to beat me._

_And right now, it knows that it’s won._

_“What is it I don’t know?” I ask it._

_“Not telling!” It laughs, clapping its hands excitedly._

_I groan in frustration, rubbing at my eyes. I swear, if this thing was alive, I would rip its wings off. And enjoy every second of it. Whether it looks like my ex-girlfriend or not._

_“Fucking tell me already!” I shout._

_“Now, now. Don’t have a tantrum.” Its little voice makes me want to jump on it and start wing surgery even more._

_“I’ll give you a clue.” It says, leaning over so its lips brush my ear, “It’s to do with Mark.”_

_I stare at it._

_“Mark? What do you - what did you to him?” I yell, panic blooming in my chest. If this thing’s hurt Mark, I’ll find a way to kill it even if it’s not alive._

_“Nothing.” It laughs._

_“Then what do you mean?” I demand. I have no patience left, no tolerance for its shit. I am this close to punching it unconscious. First it mocks the dead, the impersonates someone important to me, and now it’s hinting at doing things to Mark but won’t even tell me what._

_And the silence in this room seems so thick as it licks its lips and brushes a strand of Mimi’s hair out of its face. Then it smirks and stands right in front of me, staring at me with cold, dead eyes._

_“It’s to do with Mark, the sunset, and your new song.”_

_And I shiver as Mimi’s mouth opens in one last, cruel laugh that I know is aimed at me. Her candle is burning me alive, and she's laughing as I go up in flames._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha lyrics by meeeeeee


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gay is coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w past drug abuse

Mark’s P.O.V

There are apparently five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. 

I don’t know if these apply for someone who’s run away, but if they do then I’m in stage one. I am in denial. 

I’m not in denial of Roger’s disappearance. I’m in denial of his death. Maureen seems to have gone straight to stage five - acceptance - already telling herself that he is dead and we can’t do anything. But I’m denying that. 

I don’t understand how she can so easily throw someone away to death. But then again, maybe it’s just easier for her to believe him dead than believe he’d leave us forever. 

If I’m in stage one, then surely stage two will be coming soon. And stage two is the one I’m dreading most. 

Anger.

Because when I reach that point, I will be overcome with such hate towards Roger for running away. I’ll cease from being able to see his side of things, and all I’ll feel is fury that he could be selfish enough to do this. 

And I know that none of these thoughts will be my own, but I won’t be able to control them. 

Maureen is doing things the easy way, the less painful way, skipping straight to acceptance. But even if it means going through all the other stages, I’d rather let them happen in the hope that Roger comes back before I have to get to the final stage and give up on him. I can’t bear the idea of accepting him as dead when he’s still out there, needing to be found.

The missing posters have done nothing other than make me cry whenever I see one. They’ve mostly all been destroyed by the weather by now, so at least I don’t have to see his picture everywhere I go.

I still haven’t touched my camera. I don’t want to look at the pictures, not until I’ve reached the fifth stage, not until I’ve dutifully accepted my loss like Maureen has. 

Until then, I need to cling onto the light. I need to get through and keep telling myself he’s alive. I’ll watch the sun setting alone every night until he’s by my side again, even when I find myself angry at him.

Roger, I believe in you. I know you’ll come back. But make it soon please. I don’t know how long I have before I listen to Maureen and give in to the dark thoughts. 

Just give me a sign. A sign that you’re out there.

…

I don’t know if I’m meant to be in this house. Benny’s car isn’t here so he must be out. I’ve never met his wife Alison, but I think she spends weekends with her father. So, I’m praying that if I’m really lucky, Mimi’s home alone.

Me and Mimi don’t talk much. We always got along when we saw each other, but we were in a big group and most of us were drunk off our heads. She mainly stayed around Roger and Angel, but we shared some insightful conversations over a bottle of whiskey. 

Most of them have faded by now. Drunk memories rarely stay above the surface of the alcohol until the next morning, let alone the next year. But there’s one, potent and vibrant as ever as it plays back in my mind.

_I’ve had too much to drink. My legs are dead weights as I force them up and down and up and down to get me to the bathroom. I’ve never noticed how much effort and concentration goes into walking before now._

_Up and down. Up and down._

_Watching the floor as it ripples under my feet. If I look up for a second, I will fall. I must stay focused._

_Up and down. Up and down._

_I cling to the door of the bathroom, a sad little sloth clinging from his tree branch. Funny how appropriate that metaphor is, I think to myself, seeing as sloths only ever come down to the ground for toilet breaks, which is what I’m doing right now._

_I’m a sloth coming down from my tree. I laugh. Who knew I was so clever?_

_There’s a grumbling noise from one of the stalls. If they’re words, then they’re ones I’ve never heard. Sounds like growling. A predator?_

_And then there was banging and some tiny, sober part of my brain clicks that there’s a person crying behind that door._

_So, even with my tongue flopping around uselessly and feeling like lead, I slur out, “Hey, open up.”_

_There’s this piercing scream and a shout of, “Are you a girl?”_

_This confuses my drunk brain. I haven’t seen the sign saying that this is a girls’ bathroom, just walked straight in. So I scoff at her._

_“Fuck no!” I shout, my legs flying out from under me, flailing wildly as I grab onto the sink for support. I fall over anyway, landing flat on my back on what I can only imagine is a puddle of whatever juices are found in public toilets._

_The cubicle door squeaks open and a pair of unfocused eyes see me on the floor._

_“Mark?” Mimi asks, squinting at me. I can hear her thoughts: is this the same elusive, strung-out filmmaker that moved here from a rich neighbourhood, lying in piss on the floor?_

_She pulls the jaguar-patterned faux fur coat tighter around her thin body, and I allow myself to find humour in that because huh, she really is a predator. She stares for a minute, figuring out what exactly is going on, before she bursts out laughing._

_“You know you’re on the floor, right?” She says, gasping for air._

_I hum in acknowledgement, not making any move to get off said floor._

_“You planning on getting up?” She asks, seeming to tower over me._

_“Nope. Kind of comfy.” I say._

_It’s now that I see the makeup running down her face, the smudges of mascara and the hurriedly wiped away lipstick. I join the dots, recalling the crying I heard when I entered._

_“You okay?” I ask, still perfectly happy on the floor. Though I’m sitting up now, rather than lying flat._

_She nods. Hiccups. Giggles. We’re both too drunk, too drunk for a proper talk. My head is full of bubbles. It feels so light and the rest of me weighs a tonne. I’m a disproportionate sloth._

_“Yeah.” She drags out the “r” for so long she sounds like a cat purring. Hiccups again, “I’m great.” The “r” is again extended._

_I hum quietly, "You sure?"_

_Mimi's bottom lip starts to wobble and her big eyes go shiny. She sniffs and rubs at her eyes with an arm that's covered in bangles._

_She makes a little whimpering noise, "Can I tell you something mama?"_

_In my state, I don't even question the fact that she thinks I'm her mother. I just nod vigorously, like a little kid excited to be trusted with a best friend's secret._

_"Roger doesn't love me." She says, smudging her makeup more with another careless arm flung across her face._

_"What?" I ask, "You were literally just kissing out there. He never shuts up about how much he loves you."_

_Mimi looks at me sadly, pouting, "No," She whines, stretching the "o" and frowning, "He doesn't."_

_Her body starts to shake and I'm scared that she's about to throw up. It completely slipped my mind why I needed to visit the bathroom in the first place._

_"He loves you more than he loves himself." I laugh, despite the serious words. I know this first hand. I've seen Roger torture himself with drugs to get rid of his pain. A man who likes himself would not do that. I shouldn't laugh. Roger's self-hatred is not funny._

_Mimi just starts to cry harder. A curtain of thick, curly hair hangs in front of her face. Her eyes are shut and her nails are scratching at the track marks on her arms._

_Maybe she's not only drunk. I always forget that she's still happily doing heroin. Not like Roger - determined to stop and only relapsing when he's feeling awful._

_"You don't understand Mark." She hisses, a serpentine tone that makes me want to cower away, "He can't love me because he's in love with someone else."_

_I'm stunned. My drunk tongue rests on the bottom of my mouth, too lazy to move, too shocked to make words._

_"What?" I ask humbly, "Who?"_

_Roger loves Mimi. Roger never stops telling me how much he loves Mimi. If he loved someone else, he would've told me. I'm his best friend. He tells me everything._

_"You know Mark," Mimi says through her tears, "For someone so smart, you can be so stupid sometimes."_

_And she doesn't sound drunk for a moment._

_We stare at each other, me on the floor and her stood above me. There's so many things passing unsaid, things Mimi's trying to tell me with her eyes that my sluggish brain doesn't understand._

_This moment would be huge if I wasn't so wasted._

_"See you around." Mimi says, giving up on the messages that I can't read._

_It's now I see the needle in her hand and the dim brown of her eyes._

_Mimi leaves me and I hear sobbing as soon as she's gone. I sit alone, my head a dizzy mess._

_I need to ask Roger if this is true._

_"Ah!" An old lady walks into the bathroom, her eyes widening when she sees me hugging my knees._

_Her shrill screams are the last thing I remember from the night._

I never did ask Roger if he loved someone else. The time never felt right. After that night, Mimi always seemed so happy with him and vice versa. She never again voiced any insecurities regarding their relationship. 

Well, until she broke up with him. But that has nothing to do with him loving someone else. That's because he forgot how to show affection. 

I remember that sunset, the love song he sang for me that wasn't about April or Mimi. I wonder if that song was for this other person that Mimi thought he loved. 

I knock on the door of the house that looks like a mansion compared to the lost. Please don't let Alison be in. 

"Mark?" Mimi peers around the door. She looks pale and her hair is flat with sweat. 

"Just stopping by." I smile slightly. 

She doesn't return the gesture. She looks thin and pasty. I know she's still doing the drugs. 

"I was meaning to come round." She says, "There's something I need to show you."

I wonder if she's thinking of the night in the bathroom. I wonder if she remembers it as clearly as I do, the way she cried and told me that Roger didn't love her. 

Or maybe she's let it slip from her mind. She had drunk more than me. Maybe she's been blessed with the art of forgetting. 

"You want to come in?" She asks, twisting at the bangles that hide her arm - even thinner than it was the last time I saw her.

"Sure." I say. 

All I can see in her face is the look in her eyes that night as she walked out with the needle clutched tightly in her trembling hand. 

All I can hear are the words, the words of someone who has surrendered to loneliness, _"You don't understand Mark. He can't love me because he's in love with someone else."_

Mimi’s voice now is stronger than it was that night. She doesn’t sound quite as broken; maybe Benny is doing her some good. But there’s something about the way she fidgets, something in the way she glances around. She’s hiding something. And whatever it is, it’s killing her to keep in. 

“Let me go and find it.” She says.

The front room here is a million worlds apart from the loft. It’s full of plush furniture and smiling family photos. There’s even a dog bed in the corner. A warmth fills the air that I’m not used to; I’m sure it must be electrical heating. I can see why Mimi chooses to stay here with her secret boyfriend and his oblivious wife, rather than freezing to death on Avenue B.

I don’t really want to sit on any of the chairs. I do not belong in a house like this. I don’t know if there’s some special washing routine you have to do before sitting down. I might be too dirty to sit on something like this. It’s safest just to stand up.  
“You can sit down, you know?” Mimi walks back into the room, smiling weakly. 

“Thanks.” I laugh awkwardly, perching right on the edge of the simplest-looking armchair. 

Mimi sits on another chair, shuffling her feet. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. Whatever she’s trying to tell me, her brain doesn’t want her to. What could be that bad?

In the end she sighs and holds out a piece of paper. 

“He left me this.” She says. I don’t have to ask who she’s talking about, “I wanted you to read it.” 

I swallow hard. Can it be any worse than the note he left me? Does it - I dare to let my mind wander - have anything to do with what Mimi told me in the bathroom that night? Is it about this other person that Roger supposedly loved?

I take the paper out of her hand. On it are four words. Four simple words. 

_“Goodbye love._

_Roger Davis.”_

But those four words have two meanings to me. I’m not sure if Roger thought that deeply about them, about the different things they could be stating. It could just be me over-analysing his last words to his ex. Or this could be on purpose. 

Option one - Roger is referring to Mimi as “love.” He’s using it as a cute pet name and is saying goodbye to her because he still cares about her enough to warn her that he’s leaving. 

That’s the most likely option from the man who used to think it was socially acceptable to kiss your best friend in public; he was never one to think of the way things can be interpreted. It’s unlikely he meant this note as a double entendre. 

But there’s option two - he’s saying goodbye to the feeling of love itself. He’s running away from his pain but also losing all chances of ever loving again, and he knows that. He’s giving up on his heart.

This is the deeper meaning, the one that I can’t particularly imagine Roger considering. But in the back of my head, all I can hear is Mimi telling me that he loves someone else. Was he running away so he didn’t have to deal with that anymore? Was he running away from the conflicting fight of love?

“Mark.” Mimi says, her eyes staring into mine - dark and empty, “Is it because of me? Is it because I shouted? Because I accused him of not loving me enough?” 

All this time, I’ve been only seeing that this could be my doing. Me avoiding home, me working, me coming in late. I was so certain that those were the things that drove Roger away. But maybe it was a build-up of Mimi making him question his ability to love when she broke up with him, and me drifting away. 

Maybe we’re all the villains in his story. 

“Mimi.” I whisper, looking at her thin, ghostly face, “You didn’t mean to hurt him.”

I can’t reassure her though. I can’t tell her it’s not her fault, because it could be. I can’t lie but I need to stop her from looking at me with such a deep sadness. 

“But I did hurt him. Look at what he wrote.” She says.

“He loved you Mimi.” I say quietly, “He wasn’t hurt. He wanted to protect you.” 

But did he? Did he love her? I know that there was a time when he did, but all I can think about is Mimi crying in the bathroom, drunk and high, sobbing out that Roger doesn’t love her, staring at me surprisingly clearly through her alcohol-induced haze.

“I know you’re thinking about it.” She says, dejectedly messing with her hair. 

“About what?” I ask. 

She sighs, “Don’t play dumb Mark. About that night.” 

I look at her, taken aback. I’ve always thought that Mimi was too intoxicated to have any recollection of the shocking things she told me. Why else did she never mention it again? Why did she continue to date Roger after? She let things carry on as normal, even when she doubted the very relationship she had come to depend on. 

“Yes.” I say.

She doesn’t meet my eyes, “Roger and I got drunk the week before.” She says quietly, “We both got very emotional and he told me there was a secret that he had to get off his chest. I thought there could be no harm in that and said he could tell me.”

She looks up at me again, those eyes boring into me, “He told me that he loved someone else.” 

There are tears dripping off her cheeks and her chest is rising and falling jerkily. I can hear her breathing, the infection in her lungs writhing freely, a disgusting and gunky noise. 

“Do you know who it is?” I feel like a monster for asking, but I need to know. I can’t explain why, but I just have to know who it was that stopped Roger from being able to love Mimi. 

She looks at me again and I can almost see the hilt of a dagger sticking out of her chest. The startled expression in her eyes is so hurt by me for asking, and I mentally kick myself. I should comfort her, not question her. 

But I give in to the thirst for knowledge, knowledge that can help me understand what was going through Roger’s head when he decided to leave. Maybe if I know more, I’ll be able to backtrack his steps and even locate him.

Mimi looks away, licks her lips. Her eyes are darting around, landing everywhere but on me. She’s still hiding something. 

“No.” She says, “He never said who.”

My people reading skills are not perfect, but they’re functional. I know what a liar looks like. 

But I don’t press her for more. 

I have walked into her home, questioned her about a sensitive subject and now she looks sicker than she did when I arrived. 

Mimi is lying to me but I will not force the truth out of her. She’s my friend. I can’t pick at her brain without hurting her even more. 

I don’t have any answers, but I have disturbed her enough. It’s time to back off. 

One sentence plays itself on repeat in my head, _“You know Mark. For someone so smart, you can be so stupid sometimes.”_

I can’t quite pinpoint why that unsettles me so much.


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w drugs, alcohol, depression

Roger’s P.O.V

My life has become one tedious, monotonous routine. Every day is the same:

Wake up, drink coffee, sing in the plaza, buy whatever I need while Karessa flirts with me, come back to the hotel, heat up some food, work on my song, watch the sunset alone. At the end of the week I pay to stay here.

It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of this mind-numbing sameness. Three weeks of a once-magical life, now turned to a boring hell. 

Perfect the song. Perfect the song. It’s never good enough, never right. There’s always more emotion that can be expressed, always more I can add. Make it right. Make it beautiful. Make it flawless. 

No time anymore. Running out. Running out of time, out of hope, out of lyrics, out of life. Why is running the thing I do best? Why can’t things just slow down for once?

Sing. Sing my heart out. Sing until my throat bleeds. Sing until I’m deaf to everything except the roaring of the crowd. Every day. Make promises. Tell them I’ll be there tomorrow. Doom myself to another day of damnation. 

What once kept me alive now kills me. I was right, singing really is a drug. But now I’m addicted and the side effects are beginning to show. 

Come home. Want nothing more than to sleep. Sleep. When was the last time I slept properly? Three weeks. How many more weeks can I survive?

Getting thin. Ignore the way Karessa’s eyes swim when she tells me that. Reject her offers of free food. I can’t take. Can’t be selfish, not anymore. I am the most selfish person in the world. I can’t take anything else from people.

Sing. Write. Sing. Write. 

I know what to expect each morning, know what to do. Nothing new, never. Never any new ideas, never any new people. Never any new feelings. Just numb, numb, numb. Hollow. Empty. Good. I deserve it. 

Need help? Karessa asks that every day. Sees how I struggle to carry my shopping, sees my knees buckle under the weight of the guitar. No. I always say no. No help. Stop being selfish. 

Homeless man. He doesn’t smile now. He looks sad when he sees me. But I forget. People in the plaza still cheer, they pay more than ever. He is foolish. He is jealous of me. 

Alcohol. I give in. The aisle is so long and so bright and it makes me feel young for a minute. Karessa steers me away but I always find my way back there. Karessa cries. Stupid girl. She doesn’t even know me. 

“You’re sick.” She tells me, “Please let me help you.”

No. No. No. She will hurt me. She will steal my money. She will send me back to New York. I need to stay. I need to keep singing. It’s all I know how to do anymore.

“Please. You’re not the person you were when I met you.” 

Karessa cries. Fake, fake, fake. She’s an actor. This is all a film. Nothing is real. The world is a cardboard cutout. I’m just someone who stumbled into the set by accident.

Lost. Alone. I shouldn’t be here.

“Let me help you Roger.” 

Karessa cries more and more. She doesn’t work at the shop every day. “She’s overworking. She needs a rest.” Her replacement tells me.

Karessa is gone. I broke her. I never see her again in the shop. Gone, gone, gone. Everyone who cares gets hurt, pushed away. Mark. Mimi. Angel. Collins. Karessa. 

Just me and the guitar. My friend. My love. Love. I remember how to love when I play my guitar. Love is what I sing about. 

Song. It’s almost finished. Love song. Who do I love? I knew once. I told Mimi. Who? Who? Don’t remember. Don’t remember Mimi’s face. 

Home. The song is about home. My home is Santa Fe but my home is destroying me. 

New York is my home. Watching the sunset, drinking. The roof. Wanting to kiss him. Was that a dream? Must have been a dream. I loved Mimi then. Why would I kiss Mark?

Mark is my home. Mark. So far away. I want him. I regret running. But I can’t get back. Can’t get out of this hole. Let me out!

Three weeks. Now four weeks. Now five. Time flies. Time dies. How much more to endure? Eternity. Eternity burning because of my mistakes. 

Karessa visits. Demands to come in. Get out, get out. No actors here. 

I tell her and she cries. 

“What are you doing to yourself?” She asks and shakes me by the shoulders, “What are you doing to your life?”

Who am I? Who am I? 

Roger Davis. That’s what the hotel people call me. Roger Davis. Born in Santa Fe. Twenty years old. Depressed. 

Lies.

This isn’t depressed. Depressed is sad. Depressed is sleeping. I was depressed before. This is not the same! They are full of lies!

Breakdown. Breakdown. Doctors. Sympathy. To hell with it all! 

I hit Karessa. I scream and I growl like I wanted to when I first met her. She’s been told to give up. Stay away from him, he’s not well. He needs space. 

No. No. No. Not space. I need to sing. I need to perform. I need to live.

Every day without fail. They smile, they sing along, they dance. I feel healthy for an hour. I feel like me. Then I get back and I stare at the wall and I feel drained again. 

Am I dying? I’ve been so prepared for death but I never imagined it feeling like this. I’m losing everything, everything except music. 

“You need to wake up!” The last time I saw Karessa she slapped my face while I blankly faced the window, “You need to snap out of this Roger!”

I can’t. I’m not strong. I’ve lived my whole life pretending to be, thriving off other people’s frightened admiration. But it’s fake. Now I need strength and there is none. 

Karessa makes me doubt. She says I can get out of this. Does that mean it’s my fault I’ve fallen again? My fault. Everything is my fault.

I’m scared. Am I dying? I don’t want to. Not like this. Not here. I want to remember who I am. 

Stare at the wall. Stare at the sunset. Stare in the mirror as I fade away day by day. Smaller, thinner, weaker. Tired. Mess. When was the last time I showered? Have I taken my AZT today?

Do I die today? Surely it’s soon. My heart gets slower. My thoughts get slower. Let me die. If I am dying, then let it happen now. Don’t drag this out any longer. 

Let me die now or let me die in a better way. Let me die with Mark. I don’t care. Take me back to him. Please let me see him again. I love him. Let me see him. 

The hotel is prison. Locked up. Behind bars. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Sick. Unwell. Needs sleep. Needs medicine. 

Needs Mark. Needs Angel. 

They let me out to sing. I know they don’t want to.

“Air will be good for him.”

Money. Money. Wasted on alcohol. Getting drunk. Forgetting. Let the regrets slip away. Let me forget Mark. Let me forget it all. 

Sunset. Each the same. Sunset. I hate it. Sunset means I get trapped for the night. Sunset is my least favourite part of the day.

I don’t talk. Not to the staff who want to call a doctor. Not to Karessa when she visits. Only Angel. I talk to Angel. I trust her. 

Angel sometimes answers. She tells me that Karessa’s right. She tells me to listen. Karessa loves me, she says, Karessa wants you to be happy again. She tells me that I’m sick and that I need help and that I need to hold on because help will come.

I tell her to wait. Just let me finish this song. Then I’ll get help. She needs to let me complete it. Give me more time. 

Angel hugs me and she cries, “Oh honey. Time is the one thing I can’t give you.” 

Hallucinations. The doctors say I’m seeing things that aren’t there. But Angel is here. Angel is the only one who hasn’t given up on me. She’s the only one who ever cared. 

Where’s Karessa? Not allowed in. Scared. Says that you’re gone. Says you’re not the kind man that she fell in love with. Love. Love doesn’t exist anymore. Karessa’s living a lie. She needs to forget love.

Burning. My heart is on fire. My fingers ignite when I play the guitar. Pain. Give me the pain. Make me feel something else, other than this gaping hole of emptiness that has torn me apart. 

Lie on the bed. Don’t sleep. Not comfortable anymore. Rather be on the street. This is not my home. I can’t be here. But they won’t let me out. I’m stuck. 

Short. Each day is a blur. Over so quick. Life is a series of clips. Sounds like something Mark would say. I want him. I need him. He can help me. I tell Angel this. She just smiles sadly and tells me that only I can help myself. 

Angel sounds like Karessa. I hate them both.

I remember. Mark. He let me hold his camera, let me film him. He never trusts anyone with that camera. But me. I’m different. Mark let me film him and I narrated. He laughed. When did I last laugh?

Shaking. Trembling. Can’t move. Feel sick. Am I dying? Angel, am I dying? She strokes my hair and tells me that she doesn’t know. I cry into her shoulder. I need her. She keeps me going.

Love song. I still write. I know the song. I sang it before. Where? Where? Angel tells me she knows the song. Where? 

“Think.” She whispers, “Think about your life before this.”

There was no life before this. I am Roger Davis. I was born in Santa Fe. I am old, but somehow too young to die. I am sick. I need help. I sang this song before. I sang it under the sunset, but not this sunset. 

Can’t remember. Angel smiles sadly, “You will. Just keep trying.”

Medicine. Shoved down my throat. Medical records. 

“History of depression. And HIV positive.”

Yes. Dying. Dying because of April and that needle and my errors. My fault. 

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

“You’ll remember honey.” Angel says, “You’ll get out of this.” 

I don’t believe her anymore. How long have I been like this? How long since Karessa got separated? How long since I saw Mark?

Who is the song about? Where did I sing it? Angel isn’t here. Angel has left me. No one wants me anymore. I don’t want to live alone. 

“Let us help you.” 

Okay. Okay. If it’ll help me sleep. If it’ll make me eat. If it’ll bring Angel back to me. If it’ll help me remember my love song. 

Nodding. My voice doesn’t work. I haven’t used it for so long. 

Can I see Mark? Can they bring him? I want to see him. I want to apologise. 

“Will you let us help you?” 

Karessa’s holding my hand. I see her eyes. Help him be the man I fell in love with, she begged the doctor, bring him back. 

The guitar is cold and my body is stiff and my tears are poison. Angel holds my other hand and she nods. She’s crying. Her eyes tell me to say yes, let them help. 

Scared. Will they hurt me? 

“No.” Angel says, “They’ll help you feel better.” 

Karessa. Crying. She loves me. I hate her. She wants me to be okay. I want this. I want pain. But I don’t want to forget. Let me finish the song. Let it be perfect. 

“It already is perfect.” Angel says.

Vanished. Angel isn’t there. Hallucinations. Seeing things that aren’t real. Symptoms. Angel is dead. Angel left me here. Why can she die, but I can’t? Unfair. Cruel. 

“Please Roger?” Karessa begs. 

If it lets me remember my song. Home. That’s the song - Home. You are my home. Mark is my home. 

I nod and Karessa falls into my arms.

“I’ll make sure you get better.” She promises. 

Let me finish the song. Let me finish Mark’s song.

_Can’t do this alone, because you are my home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i'm worried that this was too sudden to be effective? thoughts?


	11. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mark is angy

Mark’s P.O.V

Sure enough, I exit stage one and begin stage two. Anger hits like a truck.

Five weeks without him. 

I find my body tense, my fists itching, my blood searing. All of my fury, my ability to hate, is directed at one man. 

I can’t believe him. Stupid, selfish. The poor baby couldn’t just suck it up and get on with his life. He ran away from his problems, from me, just because he didn’t know how to deal with them.

Roger isn’t the only one here who’s struggling. But do the rest of us take flight? Do we disappear as soon as the going gets tough? No. We push through and we grit our teeth and we wait for the light to shine again. What makes him think he’s so special?

He doesn’t deserve people searching for him. The idiot did this to himself. If he’s suffering right now, I can only think it serves him right. I hope he’s feeling the pain I am.

I’m going to stop looking. He can find his own way back if he’s that fussed. I’m not going to drop everything and come to his rescue. I have a life to get on with too, and if Roger wants to spend his starving on the streets, then so be it. He should’ve thought it through better if he wants to survive.

Mimi is dying because she thinks it’s her fault. Maureen is a mess because he’s made her question how much longer our family will last. Collins is a shadow because he’s lost his girlfriend and now his lifelong friend too.

I can’t believe he didn’t think about us, about what would happen when he took off. What happened to those nights on the roof, talking about life, watching the sunset, singing me his songs? What happened to the man who begged me never to leave him, who cried through his withdrawals in fear that I would abandon him and throw him out for the winter to finish off? What happened to the whispered _“can you promise that you’ll never give up on me?”_ that night?

I fucking swore. I honoured my promise. I never gave up on him, even when I knew I should. Even when he went back to drugs and broke my heart time and time again. I never gave up and I helped him heal. 

He’s such a hypocrite. I get my side of the deal. But now he’s given up on me, on us. He played us all. And to think I cared for that man and tricked myself into thinking he cared for me too. 

If I could see him now, I would punch him until I drew blood. He deserves to be beaten. How dare he leave Mimi in such a state? He knew that she was getting weaker each day and yet he left her to wallow in her guilt. He doesn’t even deserve me wasting time thinking about him.

Thinking about the time we dared Collins to run naked through the park. The time me and Roger snuck into the Life Cafe just to enjoy their heating, until we were thrown out. The time me and him bought each other shitty joke presents on Valentine’s Day because we were single. Thinking about the way I was always there for him when April died, and he returned the favour when Maureen broke up with me. 

All one huge trick. All those years were fake. He was lying the whole time, pretending to be my friend. And I fell for it. I was so naive that I believed that treacherous snake. 

The house is even harder to be in. Not only am I surrounded by all these reminders of his existence, I also have to tell myself that I don’t miss him, that he was a fraud, that I hate him.

Maureen’s right. He’s gone. And I think that’s a good thing. My anger feeds me all these ideas. It lives inside my head and it blocks out any thoughts that are my own, replaces them all with its furious, bitter words. 

The anger tells me everything there is to know about who Roger was. It hides in me and it stops me from feeling anything but rage towards him. This is the worst stage of grieving, I always knew it would be. 

I understand why Maureen skipped to acceptance. Going through this is excruciating and it’s driving me mad. I can’t explain how much it stings to be able to do nothing but hate the person you love like a brother. The person I care most about in the world, now rewritten into life’s script as the monster. 

If life is a movie, it’s time to press the power button. Or at least put it on pause. I don’t think I can take much more of these thoughts that don’t belong to me. God, Maureen really chose the easy route. 

I need to get out of the house. I don’t want to be in here, alone because he left! Alone because he couldn’t even be bothered to try. Not even for me. It doesn’t matter what he was going through, he should’ve told me instead of running. 

When have I ever not been there?

Yes, I was out working a lot. If Roger had opened up, I’d have asked Alexi for time off. I’ve never had a day off sick before, so she wouldn’t have been able to say no. It’s Roger’s own fault if things got too much for him. All he had to do was talk to me. 

Anyway, he’s probably fine. His letter was probably all a lie to explain him running away. I’m sure he just saw a chance for a better life somewhere. I bet he doesn’t even miss Angel. 

A part of me cringes. It tells me that I shouldn’t say that. Roger didn’t stop crying for months after Angel’s death. He was closer to her than I was. He wouldn’t make that up. I shouldn’t accuse him of that.

But the angry part encourages me. He did lie. He knew I would blame myself. He just wanted to cause more destruction before he disappeared forever. He wanted to uproot our lives even more. Classic bad guy move - cause the most chaos possible, go out with a bang.

Anger gives me these thoughts, and I can’t beat them. But I want to be distracted. I want something to stop me from hating my best friend.

I dial the phone, my leg bouncing as I try to stop thinking. He won’t answer, I know he won’t. His phone’s barely ever on since…

“Mark?” Tom Collins asks over the line, surprising me more than Maureen’s acceptance or Mimi’s revelations about Roger, or even my sudden hatred. 

“Hi.” I say.

All this time I’ve been wanting to reach out and talk to him. And now I’ve got the chance, words fail me. What do I say to the man who’s lost everything? 

“Are you okay Mark?” He asks quietly, “You just got back from work?” 

I nod and then realise he can’t see that, “Yep. Just walked out the gates of hell.” And straight back into hell. The loft is no nicer to be in than Buzzline is. 

Awkward silence. So weird. There’s never been a silence this thick between me and Collins. We always have things to discuss. 

“You miss him still?” He asks gently. There’s a warmth to his voice that I wasn’t expecting. I thought his heart had frozen when Angel died in his arms.

“No.” I say harshly, “I don’t miss him.”

“Mark.” He says quietly, “I know what it’s like to grieve. I know that deep down you do miss him.”

I forgot. Of course he knows what it’s like. His girlfriend died. He’s probably experienced these stages far worse than I am.

“I was angry too. Angry at her for leaving me, angry that she gave up.” His voice sounds strangled and I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes, “But I never hated her, really. And you don’t hate Roger.”

The tears start to roll down silently and I nod. He’s right. Collins studies human behaviour for a living. He knows how the soul works. He’s seen right into mine, even from the other side of town, connected only by a wire. 

“I know.” I choke out. 

“He’ll come back.” Collins says, his voice smooth and calm though laced with emotion, “You just have to give him time.”

I often forget how close Collins was with Roger. The three of us were roommates for two years and we were like a family. When I worked, they would stay in the loft or go into town. Collins only moved out when he met Angel and we assured him it was okay.

The three of us bonded over a night spent with our heat turned off and a cup of warm soup to share. We told each other stories about ourselves. In the space of one night, we formed a relationship that overpowered the freezing air. Cold nights mattered nothing when we were all together, keeping each other warm with words.

“I’m trying.” I whisper. 

The line crackles and for a minute I think he’s hung up on me. But when his voice returns, it’s full of life and Collins sounds just like he did on the day he rushed home to tell us that he’d met the most amazing woman.

“NYU’s kicking my ass.” He chuckles softly, “I was wondering if you have a spare bed for the night. I need to get some cash before I’m allowed to spend another night here.” 

“Sure I do.” I say.

That bed is Roger’s. Collins can’t sleep on that. I love the guy, but the bed hasn’t been touched since Roger left and I’m keeping it preserved for when he’s back. It’s not allowed to be used.

“I can crash on the sofa.” Collins says and I suddenly remember why I became friends with him. Even on a phone call, he’s the most perceptive person I know. He never does anything that he thinks will make you uncomfortable.

“Great.” I say, not bothering to mask my relief, “You can come by whenever.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour.” He says.

It’s going to be odd having Collins back in the loft. It’s been so long since I’ve even seen him, let alone since he last visited. But I’m glad he’s coming. I don’t think I can make it through another night here by myself. I’ll be happy for the company. And the man lived here for two years, we’ll find things to talk about. Or we can always get drunk.

There’s silence again and I bite my lip, debating whether I should say it or not. I’ve been itching to say it to him for a long time now, but the moment never seems right. Or maybe that’s me overthinking it.

“Angel told me that she wanted you to live.” I say suddenly, before I can talk myself out of it again, “She said that you were allowed to move on and that you needed to live your life without her.”

A sharp intake of breath. Collins doesn’t speak.

“She told me it was my job to make sure you keep living.” I continue, “And I failed her. I let you slip away.” 

“Mark.” He says, voice thick with tears that I can’t see, “It isn’t your fault. It’s mine for letting myself stop living.”

I’m crying and I don’t know why. But now I’ve started and I can’t stop.

“Angel would be proud of you.” He says through a sob.

I nod and just keep crying. So long of keeping in all the tears. Now all I do is cry. Now I cry for Angel and the tears I forgot to shed at the funeral. I cry for Maureen and the tears I couldn’t spare when we broke up. I cry for Roger, for all the times I let him cry on me, while I detached from my own emotions.

“She’d be proud of you too.” I say.

“No, she wouldn’t.” He says, “But I’m going to make her proud.”

Angel, if you’re up there, I want you to see this moment. I have honoured your dying wish and I have brought Collins back to life. I have finally done what you wanted. 

I know that you are dead but I also know that the impact you made while you were alive outweighs the pain of your death. Angel, you will never really die, because you continue to live now. You are immortal and you are the glue that is piecing back together our little family.

Thank you for showing us how to live.

“You know, she also said not to forget about her.” I say, laughing weakly, “Or else she’ll haunt you.”

And his booming laugh echoes into my ear, the laugh that I’ve been waiting to hear since Angel died. And to me, this laugh is a sign that things are getting better. 

“That’s my girl.” I know that he’s still crying, but he’s also laughing. He’s finally able to remember her life, without being broken by her death.

I was right. Angel’s life outlives her death. 

And in this moment, everything feels okay.


	12. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> joanne is sad

Joanne’s P.O.V

Mark Cohen is going to regret talking me into this. I don’t even know why I let him convince me. It’s not like I want to see my ex-girlfriend. I definitely don’t want her to try winning me over with another empty “I’ll be your slave, I’ll do whatever you want” speech. 

I used to fall for everything she said. I used to give her chance after chance. And every time I tried trusting her, she went out flirting with other people. The name Maureen Johnson can be found in a dictionary as an antonym for loyal. 

I’m completely done with her crap and Mark knows that, so why did I listen? I’ve been happily living alone, without someone constantly bossing me around. I’ve been able to clean, and then clean again, and then get worried it’s not clean enough and do it again. 

We were engaged. She had finally promised to commit to me. And then she’s chatting up some girl. I could never tell if she even loved me, or if I was just another one-night stand, another girl she felt nothing towards. 

Me and Maureen have been coping peacefully in our separate worlds. Well, until Mark has sent our planets crashing back into orbit of one another. And now we’re back to spinning around each other, chasing but never catching up. 

Mark ignored my metaphor, told me to stop being a nerd, and said that me and Maureen would be able to sort things out this time. He said she would catch up and that maybe we could try to coexist in the same solar system again.

Mark just wants to play cupid. He’s always been far more invested in other people’s love lives than his own. Maybe if he’d paid attention to his own instead of being my matchmaker, he’d have noticed the way Roger had looked at him before he ran away.

Maureen’s late. She’s always late. Or maybe I’m early. I check my watch. Who am I kidding, it’s bang on five o’clock. I’m always on time. And Maureen’s always late. We operate in different time zones.

As if that isn’t enough of a clue that we aren’t right for each other. I don’t know what was going through Mark’s head when he arranged this little truce. He didn’t consider Maureen not bothering to show.

When I was young, when I was just starting to study law, I looked at my future and I pictured it. Me, a qualified lawyer, married to a nice woman. A smart woman who valued me and who would talk about space with me. A woman who understood my quirks - my paranoia, my perfectionism, but loved me all the same.

And I ended up with Maureen, just another of Alphabet City’s many starving artists. A daredevil who thrived under a spotlight. A woman who couldn’t keep a relationship going strong for any longer than a month. A woman who mocked me for my flaws and argued with me and drove me mad.

I couldn’t wait to get her out of my hair. 

But I loved her all the same. I loved some of our moments we shared. I loved the kisses and the way her arms held me like that was all she ever wanted to do. The way my name sounded on her lips and the way she never backed out of anything.

I loved her and I hated her and she ruined our love. She killed whatever last scrap of life there was in our relationship. She’s the one who couldn’t control herself, couldn’t prove that she cared about me more than any of the others she flirted with.

Maureen really doesn’t deserve me giving her a second chance today, a fiftieth chance more like. I gave her so many opportunities to change, to dedicate to me. And every time I found her kissing someone else. And the worst part is the way she always denied it, called me a control freak and said that she was allowed to have friends.

Well, last I checked, friends don’t shove their tongues down each other’s throats in the backs of alleys. I may have to consult my dictionary on this, but I’m fairly sure that’s what I call cheating. 

Okay, maybe our endgame is partially my fault. Maybe I did try to rein in a free spirit. Maybe I tried to get an animal to settle down for family life. Maybe I pushed her to be like me, to be sensible and logical. Maybe I wanted to fix her. 

But I only tried to control because I couldn’t trust her. If I voiced those worries to her, she’d have sneered and told me to get a hold of my paranoia. But she gave me no reason to have faith in her. I was anxious every time she left the house because I knew she’d be hooking up with someone else.

Maureen kept on prodding at open wounds. Poking and poking until I couldn’t deal with the scar she was creating. Whenever she went out, I cried because I didn’t even know if she loved me anymore. Our relationship was just hurting us, so why is she trying to repair it?

Mark said she just wanted to talk, had some things to get off her chest. Yeah right. And I’m the queen of the moon. 

The door of the Life Cafe swings open and Maureen bustles in, a thick coat pulled tightly around her body. She squints, scanning the room. Her eyes meet mine and I try to shoot her a look that says, “whatever you’re trying to achieve won’t work.” I think she gets the message, because she stops halfway through a wave and lets her arm drop. 

Is it just me or does she look disappointed? 

Maureen walks over to the table, not sashaying like she normally does. She’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans and it’s probably the most sensibly I’ve ever seen her dress. She’s not even wearing heels. Either she’s making a huge effort to win me over, or she really has changed. 

“Hey Jo.” She sits down, averting her eyes to the embroidery on the tablecloth. I know this move. It’s the old “Maureen feels uncomfortable and pretends to be super interested in decor” trick. 

“Maureen.” I say, spitting the name out like the taste stings my lips.

“You look nice.” She says, still looking at the stitches. 

Little bitch. She hasn’t even looked my way since she sat down. How would she know what I look like? And if she thinks flattery is the key to my heart, she’s got another thing coming. Someone needs to teach her that flirting isn’t the solution to every problem. Especially not when flirting is what got her into said problem. 

I nod curtly. 

“It’s been a while, huh?” She says, looking up and offering me a shy smile. 

I nod again. Of course it has. Because I thought we’d reached some silent agreement that neither of us wanted to see each other ever again. I went out of my way to avoid all the places I know she goes to. 

“You still living on Avenue B?” I ask. May as well go along with whatever she has planned. If she wants to make small talk, we can. We can do this all day until she steps up and says what she’s come here to. 

“Yeah.” Her surprisingly tired-looking eyes seem grateful for my cooperation, “Still cold.”

The “still cold in a house made for two” passes unsaid. I know what she’s hinting at. She’s upset living in our old place. She’s surrounded by memories, sure thing. But if she was that bothered, she’d have moved out by now. She just wants me to feel sorry for her, the manipulative cow.

“Still performing?” I ask. 

Her eyes light up a bit, “Yeah. Just last week I put on a show about the discrimination of ethnic minority families in Alphabet City.” 

I remember a time when I helped her with these shows. I’d stand on the ladder, fixing all her sound equipment, making sure the lights worked, getting everything set up. Sometimes Mark came over to help me with the microphones. I think it was on one of those days, some show or other, when I realised that I was being used and that the relationship had more cracks in it than I thought. 

I know that by mentioning this recent show, she’s trying to impress me. Oh look, she’s so accepting. Oh look, she’s pleasing her African-American ex-girlfriend. I know how her game works. I’ve studied the rule book. She is not going to beat me.

“I’ve got another show this week.” She says hopefully, “It’s about love. The strength of love you find in friends. I was wondering if you’d like to see it.”

Over my dead body. Never in my life would I go to another of Maureen’s shows. She’ll get me preparing the whole thing again, her little slave. This is a bribe.

“Maybe.” I say, “I’ll have to check if I’m busy.”

She nods enthusiastically. I really don’t know why she wants me to go so much. It’s just another of her terrible shows. It’s not exactly going to make me forgive her automatically. 

“You seen Mark recently?” She asks. 

“Yeah.” I say, “I met with him a few weeks ago.”

She nods. Is that jealousy I see flash through her eyes? It’s gone so fast that it’s hard to tell. I know that Mark is also her ex, but why would she be so offended by me spending time with him? Unlike her, I have friends who I don’t like to make out with. 

“How is he?” She asks. Seeing genuine concern on her face unsettles me. Since when did Maureen worry about other people?

“Getting by.” I say, “Struggling.” 

And he arranged this meeting for me. He told me that Collins had moved back into the loft and that they would be going out and doing something fun. That translates to “Collins is worried about me and thinks I need to unwind.” I just hope that the company does him some good and that Roger gets his act together and comes back before Mark snaps. 

“You know about Roger?” Maureen asks.

Does she think I live under a rock? My phone number is on the missing poster, for God’s sake. I’ve been more involved with the search than she has. At least I’ve been trying to help Mark out. 

I nod, “You know Collins has moved back into the loft?”

“Really?” She asks, “I thought he was out of Alphabet City.”

“He was fired from NYU.” I say. 

Does she not pay any attention to the people she claims to be friends with? She’s only interested in you if she can kiss you or get in your pants. 

“Oh.” Embarrassment is a weird look for Maureen. She’s pulled her jeans down in this very cafe before to show the world her new tattoo. She does all kinds of crazy shit, she shouldn’t be embarrassed.

“Yeah.” I say. The awkwardness is making my skin crawl. I’d rather her be forward and prepare myself to storm out in rage, than this. 

“You’re still a lawyer?” She asks. 

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t pretend to be friendly. Maureen wants something. She didn’t come here to catch up on my life and I didn’t come here to fake caring about her. 

“Just cut to it.” I say harshly, “Quit with the small talk and say what you need to say.”

Her eyes widen, “I’m trying to be nice.”

“Well quit it!” I say, “You obviously want something, so just say it already.”

“You won’t believe me.” She says, looking down, “You won’t even give me a chance.” 

“A chance?” I laugh, “I’ve given you plenty of those.” 

She bites her lip. This is wrong. Maureen would shout. Every time we had a fight, she got vocal and right up in my face. She yelled. This isn’t her. She looks like she’s given up trying. She looks broken.

A horrible thought hits me. This is because of me. I pushed her away every time she came after another chance. I said I was letting her try again, but I never believed it. I always thought the worst of her. I always thought she’d fail me, so she did. 

I saw her as nothing more than a cheat. She gave up on trying to convince me otherwise and became what I expected of her. It’s my fault. I turned Maureen into the monster that I hated. 

“I came to apologise.” She whispers, her lip trembling, “I came to tell you that I love you and that it hurts me to love you when you hate me. I came to tell you that I know I’ve been awful, I know I’ve been cruel. I don’t deserve you Joanne, but I still love you.” 

This is not Maureen. I can’t see her this honest, this upset. It makes me want to reach out and hold her again. But there’s that paranoid part of me that tells me this is just another elaborate scheme to trick me again, this is just Maureen the actor, the diva, doing what she does best.

I’m torn. Hold her or hate her? Trust her or reject her for the last time? Give her my heart or crush hers in my hands?

How do I know what to do when I don’t even know what’s real? I want to believe her. I want to believe that she loves me and we can finally be happy together. But it’s so hard to believe after all the times she’s lied to me like this. 

Follow my heart or follow my brain? Can love conquer fear? Is Maureen really capable of committing to someone? 

“I want to change.” She says quietly, “I want to be someone that you can love. I want to put the past behind us and start here, today.”

Is this true? Can she really change? 

“I know you probably don’t believe me but I mean it. I want to try again.” 

And as she starts to cry, I give in to my emotions and find myself reaching out to wipe away her tears. She looks up at me in surprise, her eyes leaking. And I smile. I smile at the woman who I threw out of my life, who pushed every single one of my buttons, who left me with so many scars.

But maybe scars can heal. 

“One more chance.” I say, “One more try.”

She smiles at me, a smile so wide that it looks too big for her face. I know that I must look the same. The truth is, I’ve been dreaming of this day for so long. I just never thought it possible. I thought that the notion of Maureen wanting to change was just a fantasy. But here I am, living in a dream, getting out of a nightmare. 

“Hey. You’re very pretty.” She smirks, but it’s not the old bitchy smirk, “What’s your name?”

I frown, before remembering what she said about starting new today. I understand and smile.

“Joanne.” I say, “And you’re not too bad yourself.”

She giggles, “I’m Maureen.” 

“Charmed.” I say, taking her hand and kissing the back of it. 

She blushes slightly, “You come round here a lot?” 

“Sometimes.”

She nods thoughtfully, “Well, maybe next time you’re down here, we can see each other again.” 

“That could be arranged.” I say. 

“Great.” 

This time the silence isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable. We haven’t spoken any boundaries yet, but I know that Maureen will listen to me when I say I want things to go slowly. For some reason, I trust her. I believe that she really has looked in the mirror and decided to change. And I admire that. 

Today I let my heart take the lead and it won me back the love of my life. If I’d listened to my mind, I might have shoved her out the door for good. Maybe Angel was right and love is the strongest force there is.

Maureen hugs me and it’s gentle and warm and so much nicer than any of the times we hugged before. 

I’m glad I let Mark Cohen talk me into this. The guy may not have a handle on his own love life, but he’s sure done mine some favours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda gay


	13. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> very very angsty

Roger's P.O.V

"You're doing so well honey."

Angel. Stood at the bottom of my bed. Can't move. She strokes my hair. Scared. The doctors said the hallucinations will stop when the medicine kicks in. Angel can't go. Not again. Not again.

Haven't touched the guitar for a week. Bad. It hurts my fingers. Scratched. Cut. I threw it at the wall. Broken. Still works.

Song. Given up. I don't want to hear the song again. Love song. Never finished. Never finished. It's not perfect. I don't want to play it.

Tears. Tears without feeling upset. Numb, numb, numb. No heart. My face is soaked with tears that I don't notice. Angel's fingers. Brushing them away.

Doctors. Every night. Karessa by their side. Examine me, poke me, laugh at me. Freak, freak. Look at him. Paranoid, they tell me. Sick.

Medicine. Sends me to sleep. Makes me tired. Not hungry, never hungry. So thin, the doctor frowns. Worried.

Too tired. Never get out of bed. Stare at the wall. Count the cracks. Crack, crack. One, two, three, one hundred. So many. Cracked like me. Broken.

Medicine. I hate it. Burns my throat. I scream. No. I won't have it. It won't make me better. Nothing will. Nothing will. I'm dying. Medicine will do nothing.

"You need to have it." Angel whispers. I hate when she cries.

No, I tell her. I can't. If I have it then she will disappear. I need her. I can't have it. She needs to stay.

"I can't stay forever."

No, no. If she goes, she's dead. I've lost her. She needs to stay. No medicine. More hallucinations. Don't care. Just need Angel.

"Just a little longer then."

Yes. Stay.

Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Day. Night. All a blur. A month. A month and a week. So long. Feels like hours. It's been weeks.

Karessa. Back. Tells me she's proud. Don't care. Go away. I hate her. She got the doctors here. She's why I feel hollow. She smiles. My face doesn't remember how to smile. So difficult.

Crying. No sadness.

When did I last feel anything? Death is coming soon. I'm ready. Then I can see Angel properly. Medicine can't save me. Accept death and wait. Lie on the bed until I sleep. Why bother trying?

"But he isn't dying! Why does he not try to fight it?"

Karessa. Angry. Leans in front of my face. Snaps her fingers. Don't blink. Move out the way, let me see the wall. Move. She's crying.

"Why does he just sit there?" Shouting, "The only reason he's dying is because that's what he's decided will happen! He's making himself worse!"

Doctor. Pushes her out. Good. Don't let her back in. She wants to hurt me. I see it in her eyes. She wants to hit me again. Don't hit me, I'm dying.

Medicine.

"You need to take it."

Forced to swallow. Forced to have it. Every day. More tired.

Angel?

Stood in front of me. Flickering and flashing and fading. Dying. Monsters! They're killing her! They're killing her to save me. Kill me instead, let Angel live.

"It's time now honey." She whispers. A few days later. Or is it hours?

Hand on my face. Cold, cold. Dying. Eyes, weak. Shaking. Body fading. Appearing, disappearing.

No, no. Can't go. She can't leave me with Karessa and the doctors and my damaged guitar. I need her, I need her.

"No you don't." Smiling. Tears. Smiling and crying, "You need to live without me."

No! I can't. I can't. I'll die. No. Please.

She doubles over in pain, flickers again like a candle, and is gone. They have killed Angel. Murderers. Will they kill me too?

"Finish your song." Her voice.

Angel. Dead. Me. Dying. How long has Angel been dead? Was she ever really there? Medicine. No more Angel. I never see her again.

Days. Flying. Medicine. Nothing happens. Just sleep, wake up, medicine, listen to Karessa begging the doctors to help me. I don't need help. I need Angel back. And you killed her.

Song. Angel told me to finish it. How? I can't even remember who I am. How can I finish a song?

My name is...

I was born in...

My favourite time of day is...

My best friend is called...

Nothing. No memories. No name, no identity. Just broken. Just dying. Life. Not living. Did I have a life before this? Have I always been sick? Did I ever feel anything?

Not even sad. I wish I could feel sad about my state. But no. Just numb. Tears but no sadness. Karessa gets all the sadness. Give me some. Let me feel something, anything that might wake me up.

"You want to sit outside?"

Shake my head. Not with her. Karessa will lure me and punch me. I'd rather lie here. Safe here. Slowly dying, but safe from her.

Sad again. "You used to love the sunset."

Did I? Don't remember. Blank face.

She sighs. Sits on the end of the bed. Tears. But not angry ones.

"I'm going to tell you about a man I once knew." She whispers, voice broken glass, eyes red, "He moved from who knows where to live in Santa Fe. I don't know much about his life before that, but I know he moved here to pursue his dream. Every day he would sing in front of the crowds and every day I went to watch him. The people of Santa Fe fell in love with him."

Singing. I haven't sang for so long. My voice doesn't work anymore. Haven't used it for weeks.

Shaky breath, more tears. "I fell in love with that man. The one who walked into my shop that day, asking me for the cheapest food we had. I was so scared to talk to him. And he was so new, so different to anything I'd seen in my life. He dressed like he was already a famous rockstar. His face was so cold yet so handsome and I was terrified. But when he spoke, his voice was soft and his eyes were warm."

Who? I think I'm supposed to know who she's talking about. She looks into my eyes. Meaningful. But I don't understand. My mind is so slow. Nothing means anything since they murdered Angel.

"I found myself falling in love with that man. It never mattered if he loved me back. I just wanted to love him and let him feel loved. I loved the way he seemed so happy when he sang and the way he would always deflect me flirting and act like he didn't notice." Laughs. Short, harsh laughs.

Passionate. She grabs my shoulders and pulls my body so our eyes meet. Her eyes are on fire. Burning, burning. Just like I soon will in hell. Crying, chest heaving. Desperate, searching eyes that scan my face for any sign of recognition, of life.

None found.

"Do you know who this man is?" Eyes pleading, nails digging into my jacket, "Do you know who I love?"

No. Is she stupid? I know nothing. I know nothing and she knows everything and she expects too much of me. I know nothing! Stop asking me things I don't know. Stop tormenting me with my lost memories!

Heartbreak. Destroyed eyes stare into my soul. They didn't find what they were looking for. Karessa gives up.

"His name is Roger. He's twenty and he moved to Santa Fe a month and a half ago. I met him when he walked into my shop after singing in the plaza. His greatest joy was to make people feel happy. He is a beautiful man with a beautiful heart. I love him."

Roger. Me. That's me. My name. I remember. I remember people calling me it, in a place that isn't here. Bad place. Cold and dark and hungry. Under the sunset. On the roof. Angel was there - alive.

"I've lost him now and I want him to come back to me. He's so strong but he doesn't remember. He doesn't think he can break out, but I know he can. He just has to trust me." Hysterical, sobbing, she's falling apart in front of me.

"He's in there somewhere! Locked up in a cage. He doesn't believe me but he needs to get out! He needs to come back and write his song to sing for the people of Santa Fe. He needs to make his dream come true!" Face pressed to mine, hands squeezing my shoulders.

"He is the best man I know but he's lost. He needs to find his way back and start living again! He needs to live."

Memories. Years ago. Someone else told me to live. Made me promise. Me and another man, stood together, crying. Angel. Angel made me and another man promise to keep living. Same words. Maybe Karessa and Angel are working together to help me.

Other man. Not crying. Hugging me. Ginger-blonde hair. Glasses. Scarf. Pale skin. Small.

Angel. Dying. Weak. Her last wish - for me and the other man to live for her.

How long has Angel been dead?

"He can't hear me now." Quiet again, "He can't see me. But I see him. And what I see kills me. This is not the man I love. He won't let me help him. He won't live. The songwriter cannot hear. He cannot hear me say I love him."

Angel. A million thoughts. Memories piecing together. Angel visiting. The loft. New York. I'm from New York. The other man - what's his name? What's his name?

Cold winters. Sunsets. Me and the other man - every memory I have is of us together. Who is he?

"If you're in there Roger," Karessa whispers, looking into my eyes, "I know you have it in you. Bring back the man I love. Come to your senses baby. Come back to life."

Angel. Promising her I'd never stop living. Liar. I'm dying. I betrayed her.

"I'll wait as long as it takes."

Ushered out. No! Let her stay! Karessa is on the same team as Angel. I need her too. She's the only way I can remember things. She helps more than medicine.

Medicine makes me sleep, Karessa makes me remember. I need to know. I need to know who I am and who that man was.

New York. Follow that train of thought. It'll lead to answers. New York is where I'm from. Angel lived there. Love. I love Angel.

Face. A woman. Smiling. Candle in her hands, asking me for a match. Dancing with me. Holding my hands. Kissing. Name?

Mimi. I remember her. The candle in the room is hers. It's her.

Happy. I was happy. But was she? I loved her. She didn't love me. That's why I left. That's why I left. It makes sense. That's why I left!

Sunset. Roof. Every night. With that man. On top of the world. I loved sunset just like I loved Mimi. Guitar. I played the guitar under the sunset. The same guitar.

It's in my hands again. I rub it against my face. So smooth, so familiar. Do I remember how to play?

In my lap. Shut my eyes. I can do this.

A minor. E minor twice. F. E minor for a shorter beat. A minor again.

Tears. Still no emotion, but tears. I'm crying because I feel nothing, because this song should make me feel something, but it doesn't. Because Karessa is right - I am lost. But I don't know how to find myself. I don't know how to live.

Voice. Scratchy and sore and off-key. But it's my voice. I haven't heard it for so long.

"And I'm slipping far away. I'm running further every day. Can't do this alone, because you are my home."

Tears. I'm singing. I didn't know that was possible any more. Karessa! Where is she? She needs to hear! She needs to smile.

Love song. Who for? Who? Not for Karessa, not for Mimi. Not for - what was her name? The one who did drugs with me - April, that's it.

One night. Flashing through my head. Scenes playing out. Night, sunset. On the roof. Sitting on chairs. Me and that man. Silent. Sunset. Standing up, guitar in my hand.

Start to sing. My love song! This song has always been in my heart! I sang the chorus of it long ago, before I even realised that this was my song. Drunk. We were drunk and I sang the incomplete love song.

This song is old. It was made under a New York sunset and rediscovered under a Santa Fe sunset.

The other man. I sang it for him. He heard it then.

You are my home.

I remember.

That man. Mark. My best friend. Mark.

You are my home.

Mark. The song is for Mark. I sang it for him drunk because I was scared. The song is for Mark! The love song.

Mark is my home. I ran away from him - from my home - and I'm dying alone. I ran away from him and he's alone. No. No. I ran away.

The love song is for Mark. I love Mark. I've always loved Mark. No. No, no, no. I'm dying here. I'll die. I'll die and I'll never see him. I'll never get to love him. No.

Sunset, song, love. Mark. It all goes back to Mark. Angel knew. I told Angel that I loved him. She told me to be honest but then she died and I ran from pain and found my song and death.

Mark's song. I need to go back. I need to go back to him. I need Mark. I love Mark. Why did Angel let me run away? Now he's gone. I'll never see him. They won't let me out.

Medicine. No. It'll make me forget the truth, forget that I love Mark. I need the love. I need the memory.

"You are my home."

Voice. Rough and detached. Not my voice. Sounds so far away. Far away like Mark. Like Angel.

Guitar. Playing Mark's love song. I want to sing it for him again. But this time, sing it when we're sober and tell him that the song is for him. Yes. He needs to know I love him.

Tomorrow. I'll sing this. The plaza. Karessa will be proud. Get outside. Sing the people Mark's song. Be me again. Live again. For Angel.

Smile. Not happy but smiling. It's a start. I wish Karessa would see me now. Look at me! I'm getting better! I'm in love!

"I've been blind for too long, stuck trying to write this song. But now I see that it was true and these words I sing are for you."

Tired. But not the usual tired. Not medicine tired. This is proper tired. This is because I'm creating, because I'm waking up. This is sleep I will accept.

Lie down. Guitar next to me. Warm. I wish the guitar was Mark. I wish I could tell him. Shut my eyes, breathe deep. Relax.

Alarms blaring. People screaming. Footsteps. Panic. My mind is too slow. What is this? What's happening?

Smoke seeping in under the door. Thick and grey and deadly. Why is everyone escaping and leaving me trapped in this room with the smoke? Why have they forgotten me?

Rattle the doorknob. Let me out! I'm locked in. They locked me in. Cough on the smoke. I can't die like this. Not when I'm ready to live again! I want to shout for help, but my voice has stopped working.

I'm not getting out. They've abandoned me. I've been left here to be devoured.

I can't breathe. Can't breathe. Choking. Coughing and spluttering. My lungs are full of smoke, they cry out in agony. Each breath is made of pins. It's easier to stop breathing.

Help me...

Karessa's out there somewhere, safe. I'm in here.

Why me?

I lie flat on the floor. Maybe there's less smoke down there. I'm crying with pain. Can't stop coughing. I'll die.

"No."

Angel?

She's back, shining golden through the black cloud. She smiles sadly at me and pulls me into another hug, wrapping me up in her feathered wings. She made it to heaven then.

"Am I going to die?" I ask her.

No answer. Hugs tighter. I cough more. Every breath hurts too much. I'm dizzy, all my limbs are shaking. My body is sweating and feels red raw. I'm being cooked.

"I'm here honey. You won't have to go through it alone." She means die, I won't die alone.

I cry into her wings. I don't want to die. I want to see Mark again.

"It's okay." She says, "It doesn't hurt. Just shut your eyes and let go. Hold my hand and I'll take you there."

But I don't want to die. I need to sing my song for the people and for Mark. I need to see Karessa smile when she hears it. I have so much to do, so much to live for. I can't let go this easily, not anymore.

I cough again. Ignore the blood that covers my hands. The burns that are melting away my skin. Angel's right. I'm dying. It's too late.

"Come on." She smiles faintly, "It's time. We can wait for Mark together."

I take her hand. As the pain exits my body, I remember the dream I had when I first left for Santa Fe. When that monster told me there'd be an accident. The prophecy I chose to ignore.

It told the truth.

Angel's hand is warm in mine. The fire licks at my body. This was always my fate.

...

_"It's too late."_

_Why? Why am I dreaming? Am I unconscious? Is this the space before death? Am I just clinging on to life?_

_"It's over."_

_The thing. Using Mark's body again. Using the body of the man I love. Love - the word feels so weird._

_Sad. Strange. It's bent over and crying. Hugging its legs. An act? Or is it actually upset?_

_It looks up and sees me, tears rolling down Mark's face. No. Not him. It makes me want to cry too. Cry without sadness. But there's a stab of something in my dead heart._

_"You didn't listen." It fixes me with watery eyes, "You didn't listen."_

_No. Of course not. It wanted to hurt me. It was evil. It told me things I shouldn't hear. It haunted my dreams. Why? Why would I listen?_

_"I tried to help." It whispers, "I told you that it would be dangerous here. But you still went. Because of your ignorance, you have ended up sick and dying."_

_Dying? Does that mean the fire hasn't killed me yet? Did Angel not take me up to heaven? Is my body still burning in the hotel or have I been saved? Did Karessa go back for me?_

_"I failed you." It mutters._

_Shut up, shut up. You ruined my sleep for weeks. You never wanted to help._

_"You aren't dead." It says, staring at me, "You're dying."_

_My body in flames. My mind dreaming. Body being eaten by the fire; skin melting away, slowly being destroyed and wiped from existence._

_Is Angel still by my side or have I been left alone to die?_

_"Your body has been taken to hospital." It says sadly, "They don't know if you'll make it and it's all my fault."_

_I might die. No, no. I might never see Mark. I might go straight to Angel again. I want at least one more day of life, so I can find Mark and sing him my song._

_"I told you that Mark cared." It says, "He cares for you in the same way you care for him, he just doesn't know it yet."_

_I can't speak. Throat hurts. Still feels full of smoke. Dry and itchy. Need water. No water in this world._

_"You need to find him." It says, wiping its eyes and taking my hand. I should smack it away. But it looks like Mark and I don't want to hit Mark._

_I nod. I know. I want to find him. I want to see him before it's too late - before the fire or the AIDS kills me. I need to find him while I still remember my song, while I still know how to love him._

_"I messed up." It mutters, turning away._

_Fake. It's not guilty. It sits on the floor again, those bat wings wrapped around Mark's body, red eyes full of fresh tears._

_"I tried to save you." It says to itself, "But I killed you."_

_Stand still. Don't move. What am I supposed to do? Comfort this freakish beast? Cry too because I might never wake up? Just curl up and wait for death?_

_"It's too late." It mutters, rocking backwards and forwards, "It's too late."_


	14. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saaaaad

Mark's P.O.V

There are photos in my camera, photos of him just waiting to be put up on the projector. But I don't know if I'm strong enough to look at them.

Collins has been living with me for a few weeks now. It's been a month and a half since Roger ran away.

Me and Collins watch the sunset together every night. Up on the roof, we talk about the past. We talk about the days when the three of us lived her, reminisce of the simpler times, laugh about the stupid things we used to do.

Our memories come to life under the sunset. When we speak of them, they dance in front of our eyes. We immerse ourselves in the times when we were just three friends battling the world.

Collins assures me Roger's coming back, he's okay, he's alive. But I'm beginning to doubt it. Maybe he really has made a better life for himself somewhere, or maybe he doesn't have a life at all.

My camera sits in the same spot it has all this time, but today it seems to be calling out to me. I've deliberately ignored it so far, because I've held in my heart the belief that Roger will return.

But now...well, I'm getting closer to Maureen's crushing acceptance.

I'm not in denial anymore. I'm not adamant that he is definitely alive. I'm not certain. I've considered the idea of death, I've thought that maybe he is dead, maybe he's dying. I don't want to believe it, but I can't deny it its place in my head.

Collins is out buying groceries. He insisted that we can't live off dry crackers for much longer. As if he has enough money to buy anything other than that. He's literally living here because he can't afford to stay in his flat.

Unless that's just a cover story for wanting to keep me company.

Surely, it wouldn't be wrong to watch the videos. They'll keep him alive. Reliving memories can't be a bad thing. Turning on the projector doesn't mean I've moved on.

I flick the button on the camera. It makes a few noises and turns on. It's been so long since it's been on. If it had feelings, I'm sure it would be very annoyed at me right now for neglecting it for so long.

I hook it up to the projector and suddenly there's a shaky image up on the wall.

"Close on Mark, who's just realised I'm a better cameraman than he is!"

"Roger give me the camera back!"

The voices sound distant, but the picture is clear. There's me, the camera held in my face. It's moving around a lot and I keep jumping to grab it. I remember this day. Roger decided it'd be hilarious to film me and hold the camera up in the air so I couldn't reach it.

My head is starting to hurt from how much the camera is being waved around. It's hardly managing to focus on me and the film is blurry. But I can hear Roger laughing, high and clear. That's why I didn't delete this video, because he's so happy in it. And his joy reminded me of what he used to be like.

"What's wrong? Too short to get it back!" He keeps laughing and I find myself smiling now as I watch it. He annoyed me so much that day, but it was so fun at the same time. I couldn't decide if I wanted to punch or hug him.

"No! Your arms are too long!" My voice huffs, my face pouting. Wow, I look like a little kid. I understand why he kept teasing me. My frown was definitely enough to fuel his desire to bully me.

The film shakes even harder than before as he jumps up and down, laughing at me. And then the camera is turned around, filled with Roger's face. His green eyes light up my room and his smile makes me smile harder.

"Hi future Mark!" He shouts into it, and I hear myself groan in the background about not needing to be so loud, "I just want you to know that in the past you were a whiny baby!"

"Hey!" Past me exclaims.

Roger shrugs, still looking into the lens. He leans closer and smirks.

"Between us, it's kind of cute." He whispers.

And the scene turns to black.

I'm stunned for a minute because I don't remember the bit at the end. He was obviously just messing around so that when I watch the video in the future, I'll get pissed off at him again. Winding me up always was his favourite pastime.

It means nothing.

"Tell the folks at home what you're doing Roger."

The camera's more still this time, that means I'm the one filming. It's focused on Roger, lying on the sofa, tuning his guitar for the fourth time that week. He's scowling at the instrument and plucking out chords aggressively.

"I'm writing one great song."

"Yeah, that's what you've been saying all year." I say, and he flips me off without even looking up. Swearing is his second nature.

In the video, the lights suddenly flicker off and there's a grunt of, "Fucking Benny."

But still the guitar plays. Duff notes, but still music. Still progress.

The door slams open and there's a shout of, "Take that guitar away from him! Sounds like a fucking cat dying!"

The camera turns to see a younger Collins enter the loft, wearing three coats and two hats. He's covered in snow and is smiling widely.

"You'll never guess who I met!"

He slams down our keys on the table and throws a coat onto the sofa, hitting Roger who starts to swear under his breath, muttering something like "do you know how fucking long it took me to do my hair?"

The door slides open again and a woman steps in. She's got shiny hair with a rose pinned in it and is wearing the most adventurous clothes I've seen. Her brown eyes are glinting with this love and confidence. In her hands are drumsticks.

"Meet Angel Dumott Schunard!" Collins announces, grinning at the woman.

Watching this video, I'm smiling. The first time we met Angel, not yet knowing what a truly remarkable person she would turn out to be.

A lump catches in my throat. I went all through her funeral without shedding a tear, because I had to be strong. I'm the one of us to survive, I'm the family member who isn't slowly dying of disease. It's my job to be there for all the others, to be around.

So, I never cried. I told Joanne that things would be fine, I stayed by Collins' side, I hugged Roger, I even talked to Mimi. Because with Angel gone, who else can take care of them? It was like the responsibility was passed on to me.

All my life I've been discarding my own emotions, putting them after other peoples'. Disengaging becomes so easy after a while. I remember one evening, years ago, Roger had come home very late, very high, a sobbing mess. He grabbed my arm and he begged me in a broken, cracking voice. He asked me how I did it, how I blocked out my feelings so easily, and pleaded with me to teach him how to do it too.

That's when I realised that I had been disconnecting for longer than I'd realised.

Now I remember Angel and I remember how much she meant to me and how little I showed that even when we lost her. I've been holding in my tears the whole time. So, the reason I'm crying now is because I miss Angel and because I wish I'd had a chance to cry before.

The screen goes grainy before another film starts to roll.

"Close on Roger, out the house at last."

He sticks up his middle finger, "It's not a big deal." He mutters.

A life support meeting plays out around him and me. People with tired faces sat on plastic chairs in a circle. And Roger, finally out the house, out because Mimi's meeting him at the Life Cafe.

A young man stands up, his eyes fixed on the floor.

"Sometimes I worry." He says, "I have these horrible thoughts."

Paul, the man running these meets, stands up too.

"Tell me." He says gently.

The young man looks into Paul's eyes.

"I ask myself "will I lose my dignity? And if I do, will someone care? Will this nightmare ever be over?""

The camera is zoomed in on Roger's face, staring at the young man with this sadness, this understanding that frightens me.

Whirring. Black screen.

"Only thing to do is jump over the moon!"

Maureen's standing up on a stage, lights shining down on her. Her arms are raised in the air as she lets out cow noises. People in the crowd shove each other around and mimic her sounds. Maureen starts to jump and shout louder, thriving off their attention.

"That's it!" She shouts, "Don't be shy! Moo with me!"

Mimi pushes in front of the camera, mooing straight into it, which makes Roger laugh and drag her away. He shakes his head, playing for the camera, and tuts, "Girls."

I can hear me laughing off the screen. When did I last laugh like that? It must've been when he was still here; even with Collins last night, my laugh wasn't quite so carefree.

People in the crowd start to get rougher. Small fistfights are breaking out. There's shouting and swearing and punching all around. Police officers pin people to the floor and people throw glass bottles at each other.

All of it caught on camera. I used to be so proud of the footage of this riot.

"Everyone calm down!" Maureen pleads on the stage, "Please, stop fighting!"

She screams as a gunshot rings out and everyone ducks down. She's stranded on the stage, helpless and unable to do anything but cry and beg people to stop. It's the most vulnerable I'd ever seen her until the other day.

The film shakes violently as the cameraman - me - is jostled around by the furious masses. A lot of people have snuck out by now, but the video continues to play. I stayed in for so long just to get good shots to send off to Buzzline.

The film ends. I left because some big man started giving me a few looks that made me feel very on edge. I was happy to be the witness, but not to be caught up in the fighting.

"Damn!"

"Mark look!"

The camera suddenly swings around from filming Angel dancing, to filming Mimi and Roger walk back into the Life Cafe, their hair full of snow. Collins gives the camera this evil grin and points over at the pair, making kissing noises.

And then cheering erupts through the crackly speakers as their lips connect and their bodies meet in a gentle embrace. Hands stroking hair and wide, glowing eyes. A kind of happiness I can never imagine. A love that I'm yet to experience.

"Finally!" Collins shouts. He walks over to the door and pulls Roger into this tight hug, Mimi laughing at her new boyfriend's obvious discomfort. Either Collins doesn't notice, or he doesn't care, because he carries on with the bone-crushing hug for longer than necessary.

The camera turns again, back to Angel, who's making some rather rude gestures and sounds. I see it as her predicting what Roger and Mimi will be doing later tonight.

As the video ends, a weird feeling settles on me. I know that Roger and Mimi aren't dating anymore, but there's some ugly part of me that wants to hurt him for kissing her. I don't know why; I'm not jealous, that can't be it.

Maybe I'm just concerned. Yes, that's it. I don't like reminders of when they were together, because it makes me worry that bad things were happening with them, that they were back on drugs. I guess I was just scared that Mimi was going to be April all over again.

I just wanted him to be safe. I wasn't jealous. I can't be, because I'm happy. I'm in love with my work, with my camera, with documenting real life so that it never fades to fiction in my mind.

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year!"

The screen's filled with the clock tower, its hands telling us it's midnight. Cheap Christmas lights hang from the bare trees around it, and drunk people sing on the graffiti-covered benches.

"January 1st, 12:01 AM, Eastern Standard Time." My voice says, the film still rolling on the homeless people on the benches.

"Can't believe our family's grown so much."

The homeless people and the clock tower disappear and now I see us, my friends, standing in front of the Life Cafe. Angel gives the camera a little wave and Collins gets down on one knee to kiss her hand. Joanne and Maureen are sharing a bottle of champagne, and Roger and Mimi are in the middle of some deep conversation.

This was before our lives went to hell, this was when we were still a family.

"Hey Mimi," I say, "Tell me your New Year's resolutions."

She smiles, "I'm going back to college!"

"Roger?"

"I'll try to finish a song."

I snort, "Yeah right."

He flips me off, "You can't say much, oh mighty cameraman. When was this documentary supposed to be finished, again?"

"Now, now boys." Mimi scolds, "No fighting out here. I don't want to have to scrape Mark's remains off the pavement."

"Hey!" My voice says, "How do you know I won't win?"

She raises an eyebrow and Roger snickers.

The video ends and the next begins to play.

"Maureen give it back!"

She's filming my face, scrunched up with frustration as it is. Maureen never stays still for long, and this film is certainly showing that. It's all over the place.

"Come on pookie!" She says, "All the stuff you film is so boring!"

My eyes narrow, "It's edgy, not boring."

"Whatever!" She says, "And you're always behind the camera, never in the film! The storyteller deserves to be part of the story, right?"

"Just give the camera back."

"Come on, live a little!" She giggles.

And everything goes bumpy as she starts to run, the camera facing backwards to a lost-looking me.

"Are you gonna come get it back or not?" She demands.

Past me sighs, ties his scarf tighter, and starts to chase after Maureen. She laughs and takes flight and this is making my head spin to watch. She's dodging between pedestrians and running across roads, apologising to anyone she knocks over in the process.

"Maureen, you're gonna break it!"

She laughs harder and almost trips over a small child, bending down briefly to check they're okay, before starting to run again.

"Come on, give me a little credit." She shouts over her shoulder, "I don't break everything you give me."

"No, just ninety percent of things."

"Shut up, you know you love me."

And back when that video was my life, I did love her. That sentence did reduce me to a blushing bundle of nerves. I was still in love with her, even when she started dating Joanne.

That day, when I chased her through Alphabet City for hours, was the last time just the two of us had met up. Well, until recently. I'd actually forgotten that me and Maureen used to have fun together. I'll admit that I've missed it. I miss the old times, the way things were.

"Hey Mark."

"Hm."

"Why are you filming?"

The sun is setting over New York. The sky's turning pink and red and orange and the stars are coming out. Me and Roger, sitting on deck chairs on the roof, watching other people's lives unfold under our feet, watching the doors to paradise open above our heads.

"I don't know. I just had a feeling that something interesting would happen tonight."

The camera lowers. There's Roger, blissfully unaware, and the sunset behind him. Nothing interesting may have happened that night, but I managed to capture his happiness, the most beautiful shot I can imagine.

He nods. His eyes are shut and his lips are pulled up into a small smile, so small that anyone who didn't know him so well wouldn't know it was a smile at all. The sunset brings out a different side of him. During the day, he isn't so calm.

"I've been working on a song." He says suddenly, opening his weirdly hypnotic green eyes, "I wondered if you'd like to hear it."

This film is from not long after April died. I remember my shock when he said this, but also an overwhelming sense of pride. I'd managed to snap him out of his drug-induced stupor, I'd brought him back. And here we were, just like the old times I missed so dearly.

It'd been like a memory. A spectre looking like Roger had appeared. We were living in the past, in the days where I was always the first person he'd play his new songs for. When we braved life together, and always let each other in.

His eyes look into the lens. Sitting on the sofa now, he seems to be looking right at me. His eyes are sending me a message, telling me that he's alive, that he'll be back, that he'd never leave me.

His eyes seem to beg me not to give up. They tell me that he's out there, that he's trying to return, that he loves me.

"And I'm slipping far away. I'm running further every day. Can't do this alone, because you are my home. I've been lying to myself, blaming my mistakes on ill health. But it's cold when the sun's gone and I beg it's not too late. You are my home."

His eyes are shiny. Is he crying? I don't remember him crying.

Something clicks. This is the song he sang for me that other day under the sunset, when we were drunk. The love song that wasn't for April or Mimi.

This song has been around for years. This song has always been in our lives, under construction, pushed to the side, forgotten, picked up again.

I was right, something important did happen on the night of this video. That something was this; Roger's song was born, the mystery song that he was to sing for me again on that roof. The song that would continue to pop up and confuse me.

On screen, Roger smiles slightly. He looks like he wants to say something, but stops himself. He starts to strum his guitar, no doubt searching for the chords to go with his lyrics.

"Who's the song for?" My voice says, "The girl downstairs?"

He laughs, "The stripper? No way."

"Then who is it?"

He stops smiling, "The person I love."

He shuts his eyes again, clearly ending the conversation. I remember that this was the first time in so long he'd talked properly to me, like we were still friends. I didn't want to prod, in fear of him closing off again.

So the camera goes up and the stars shine down. They watch over us and they let us enjoy this world. They give us these moments of light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel Roger's coming out of.

"I love the sunset." He whispers.

I bring the camera down. He's running a hand through long, bleached blonde hair. His eyes are still shut. Even though he can't see the sunset, he can still feel its magic.

"Me too." My voice says.

The reason I love the sunset is because of those nights. The ones when he'd seem like himself again, after the trials of withdrawal. The ones where he'd sing me his songs and slowly start to let me back into his life. Sunsets were when we fixed things, when we were okay.

Those nights are the reason I go up to the roof still. Every evening, me alone, or me and Collins. Sitting on the old deck chairs, remembering the good things, praying to the stars that Roger will come back and see one last sunset with us.

"I'm sorry." He says quietly, "I'm sorry for being such a dick. I really appreciate you, you know? Even if I do a terrible job of showing it."

He's looking at the lens again, staring at me, the audience, and making me shiver.

"I know." My voice says from the speaker, breaking halfway through.

"I've got a bad record, but I'm trying to clean it." He says, "I'm never going to hurt you again. I promise that I'll be better. I'll never leave you again, I swear. Even when things are tough. I won't run away this time."

I didn't cry that night but I'm crying now. Those were honest words, broken. He did run away. He ran away and now I don't know if he's even alive. The stupid man and my confusing feelings towards him.

I hug my legs to my chest and sob. I don't wipe my eyes or try to stop. I let out the emotions. I scream and I punch the sofa and I let myself be angry and upset. I miss Angel and I miss Roger and I miss my old life. Why did things have to change?

My body aches as it shakes. The tears are so big they hurt. I want to cry until there's no water left in me, until my eyes run dry. But my heart stings as it breaks.

I don't even notice that the projector has gone dark and the last of my films have played. I wish I'd never touched the camera. I wish I'd never had to see his face again, the face of the man I care about more than anything else.

Watching those videos doesn't mean I've given up. It doesn't mean I've lost hope of him coming back. Right?

...

I've been lying on the sofa for maybe an hour, maybe a day, maybe a year. This is the spot Roger spent most of his days. I wonder if he felt this dead when he sat here.

I almost don't get up when the phone rings. I must be turning into him too. I always get up to answer the phone, Roger's the one who says that they'll leave voicemail if they care that much. He saw it as a test. It'd prove if the thing they had to say was important enough.

"Hi." I mumble into the phone.

"Mark." Mimi's voice is full of invisible tears, "I lied."

"What?"

She breathes heavily, "When I said I didn't know who Roger loved. I lied."

I'd almost forgotten about her obvious lying from when I went to Benny's house weeks ago, about the night in the bathrooms when she'd seemed so hopeless.

"Who?" I ask. My head's spinning too hard for me to stop to think. Mimi's called me, that means she's ready to tell me. Don't I have a right to know?

"It's you." She says, "Roger loves you."

And she hangs up before I can say anything else. I get it, she just needed to get it off her chest, it can't have felt good lying to me. And this is her ex we're talking about here.

Her ex who...

Her ex who was in love with me.

Am I the reason their relationship fell apart? Because Roger was distracted? Because I got in the way?

Was his love song for me? Is that why he sang it twice for me on the roof?

Do I...

Could I possibly...

Do I love him too?

I remember the way my heart would soar every time he flashed me one of those small smiles, the way my face would heat up when he crawled into my bed in the winter. The jealousy when I saw him kissing Mimi. The way I never wanted to leave him alone; I passed it off as brotherly affection, but maybe it was love all along.

Do I love him?

I remember when Joanne held me back once, when Angel was still around, and told me that she was grateful for me helping her with her love life and offered to help me with mine.

Was she...

Has everyone been able to see that I've loved Roger? Everyone except me and him?

I remember how when I got drunk, I was overcome with the urge to kiss him. I told myself it was just my muddled brain, messed up by the drink. But was it really my heart trying to beat again?

Was it the repressed emotions trying to reach the surface?

So, when I've been blocking out my feelings, that included love? I didn't let myself see the truth, even when it was blindingly clear to others.

I see it now. My eyes have been opened by Mimi and her heartbroken sobs. I see now that I love Roger, that I've always loved Roger. His song was for me, but I was too caught up in my filming to see. Ever the blind cameraman.

I love Roger and he's gone. I need to find him. I can't believe I let myself give up so quickly. If Angel was here, she'd never have stopped asking around, putting up posters. Not until we'd found him. And here I am, moping around watching old videos because of him because I don't believe I can see the real him again.

I had accepted it. But now I can't. Because I love him and he loves me and he's out there somewhere, dying without me. Dying somewhere in America.

I love Roger. I need to find him.

...

"Mark!"

Collins slams the door shut behind him, out of breath, eyes frantic.

"Hi - what happened?"

He rushes over to me, not taking off his coat. His chest is heaving and his eyes are fixated on my face.

"It's Roger." He says quickly.

"What? Is he back!" I ask, allowing myself one moment to dream. Maybe the world is giving me a miracle today.

But Collins' dark eyes tell me it's not good news.

"No, no." He says, frowning apologetically, "I was walking downtown. You know that shop with the huge TV in the window? Well, I was going past there and the news was on and it caught my attention. They were talking about this fire in Santa Fe. Big one in a hotel. They started showing pictures of the people involved. There are 15 in the hospital with severe burns."

"What does this have to do with Roger?" I ask, a weight settling in my stomach.

"They showed pictures of the people in the hospital. And I was about to walk on. But then there's Roger's picture." He says.

And then he's in my arms, crying. This big, strong man reduced to tears. I'm crying too because everything's falling apart again.

"We found him." Collins sobs, "We found the fool, but he could be dead by the time we get to him."


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only one chapter left after this!

Mark's P.O.V

How did we get here? It's the universal question that I've been asking myself ever since Angel slipped away into the dark. I've come to terms with the fact that this question has no answer, and never will.

But that doesn't stop me from asking it.

Collins' rough hand encompasses mine. We've sat in silence since arriving at the hospital. What is there to say? No words can make this better, no words can explain how much this hurts. There is nothing to be said, so we say nothing.

Instead I watch. There are so many other people in this waiting room. I take warmth from Collins' hand and I look around and wonder why everyone else is in the hospital at this time of night. Do they also know victims of the fire? Are they about to lose someone important, just like we lost Angel in a place so similar?

Are all these people getting ready to experience heartbreak? Am I?

In one of these rooms is the man who I've lived with for years, the man who's caused me so much strife, who's nearly driven me mad. But he's still the man I love, the man who lives in my camera and in my mind, who I pray to whatever God there is will continue to live in the world too.

It's so hard to sit here. My body is screaming at me to go see him, in case waiting here will mean he's gone before I'm allowed to. It tells me I can't wait, I can't risk it. I need to see Roger, I need to tell him I love him.

There's too many people in this room. There's a young woman with bruises under her eyes, a small boy with a bandage around his head, too many people with tear-stained faces and restless eyes. Too many sad endings to these stories.

Seeing all the trauma around me, imagining the things all these people are going through, makes me worry. Is everyone in this hospital doomed? Am I also in for a sad ending? Will I come out of here feeling worse than when I entered?

Collins squeezes my hand. I know he can feel how tense I am. I wonder if he's worrying about the same things too. Does he believe that Roger will make it? Is he also preparing himself for another loss?

People say that hospitals are beautiful places, places of miracles. I think hospitals are places of death. There's something about the sterilised air that reminds me of dead things.

Maybe it's the bleak, hopelessness of the white walls. Maybe it's the smell of chemicals that are washing away the blood spilt here. Maybe it's just because Angel died in a hospital, her blood washed away by the same chemicals.

To me, being sent to a hospital means you're going to die. Just like Angel did. Hospital means losing loved ones. Hospital is the end.

If Collins knows what I'm thinking, he must agree. Because he just holds my hand and says nothing. If he thought I was wrong and Roger would survive, he would tell me. His silence speaks louder than words could.

The woman with the bruised face smiles weakly at me. Is she visiting someone? Is she also trying not to accept that hospital equals death? That her loved one may not make it out of here.

I focus on the ticking of the clock and lines of Collins' palm. When I shut my eyes, I can almost pretend everything's normal. There's so much wrong with the world right now, but this is a hand I know and feeling it is one thing that's right.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Every second that passes by is another one I could be spending with Roger, if I would only brave it and push past the doctors. For all I know, these could be the last seconds of his life and I'm missing them sitting out here.

I keep my eyes shut. Listen to the clock. I don't want to see Collins' face. I don't want to see the dullness of his eyes and the tight set line of his mouth, the crease of his eyebrows and the stillness of his body. I don't want to see how much my world has changed.

If I shut my eyes, I can pretend everything's okay. I can pretend that I'm back in the loft, with Roger and Collins. The two of them are screwing around and I'm filming. Roger takes the camera out of my hands gently and tells me that maybe I should live in the moment, instead of fighting to preserve it. I listen to him for once, and he asks if I want to hear his song. And it is the song. The love song he wrote for me. And he tells me that it's my song, and everything's good.

But of course, that isn't happening. If I open my eyes now, I'll see the ghosts that sit silently in the chairs around me, the ghost of Collins included. I'll see that I'm in a hospital and that Roger might never sing me his song again because he might never make it back to the loft.

I don't know how long we sit here. The waiting room empties around us, the woman with the bruises flashing me one final sad smile, as she's the last one to leave. I hope that whoever she's here to see makes it. I hope she's able to walk out these doors happy.

And finally our names are called. Maybe I can see him still.

"Mr. Thomas Collins and Mr. Mark Cohen to room 6 please." A man says, peering around the door.

I jump from my seat far too quickly. Collins still holds my hand, his arm yanked up as I stand. But he doesn't complain like he normally would. He understands that all I want is to see Roger.

The man leads us down a corridor. All the walls are white and they feel like they're closing in around me. Hospitals are not nice places.

He stops us outside a room.

"I must warn you, he's in a critical state." He says, in a matter-of-fact voice that makes me want to hit something, "He's suffered some serious burns and one lung is full of liquid. We're doing all we can, but he took in a lot of smoke and at this point, we're not sure what the result will be."

I can't listen to this. The way he sounds so casual about this, so unfazed. This isn't a result for his business. This is someone's life we're talking about. This is a human being who is dying, and he can't even manage a bit of empathy for me and Collins.

Or maybe he's like me, learning to detach. Maybe he has no other choice but to stay distant from his patients. Because if he saw each of them as a person, and then he couldn't save them, the guilt would kill him. Maybe in a profession like this, seeing people as results is the only way to stay sane.

"Can we just see him please?" Collins asks quietly.

A glimmer of something like sadness flashes through the man's eyes.

"Of course." He says.

He opens the door and my breath catches in my throat.

I realise that I had no idea what to expect in terms of "fire victim." I was expecting burns, but nothing like this. This is something from a horror movie, this isn't a person. No person could look like this.

Roger's in a bed, just like Angel was. He's barely recognisable. His face is pink and red and blistered with burns that will scar. His hair is thin and scraggly and singed away. The burns look like blood, patches of it all over him.

He's hooked up to machines that beep and whir. Cables come from his raw wrists.

I've been desperate to see him, but I hate what I see.

Collins lets out a low moan next to me.

"Oh God." He says.

It's not just the burns. It's Roger himself. He's so thin, nothing more than skin and bone. His face is hollow and his limbs look like they'll snap. I'm glad I can't see under the covers because I'm sure I'd be able to see his ribs.

I let this happen. He couldn't look after himself and I knew that. I should've been there, I should've helped. Oh God, I bet he hasn't been taking his AZT or anything. Has he even been eating?

I hate myself all over again for letting him get away.

I can imagine his panic, trapped in a burning building. I can picture the way his body caught fire, the pain of the flames covering his body. Skin bubbling. His beautiful, stupid face being destroyed by red-hot tongues.

"Do you know anything about what he's been doing in Santa Fe?" Collins' voice surprises me.

The doctor looks at him with those uninterested eyes, "Everything we know comes from a girl called Karessa Johnson. She owns a shop in town."

Collins nods.

"She told us that he's been staying in this hotel since he arrived. Apparently he's been singing in the plaza to earn money. The locals love him." The doctor says.

I feel this small warmth blossom in my chest. It's an amazing thing to think of him singing for people out here. The man who's been struggling to write a song for so long, who loves and hates music more than anything else in the world, finally able to achieve his dreams. Finally able to get out of the hole he'd dug himself into.

And I feel tears prick my eyes as the second fact hits me. He's been playing on the street, just like Angel did. He's been living for her. I'm suddenly so proud. He listened to her dying wish. He started living again, and not only for himself, but for her too. Which is more than I can say about me.

"But he started to fade. He fell into a depressive episode and ended up having a small psychotic breakdown. Karessa got doctors involved when he stopped eating and speaking and seemed to close in on himself. He had a lot of hallucinations and we're told had great difficulty working out what was real. Karessa was worried that he'd never break out, and then there was a fire."

I put a hand to my mouth. This is my fault. I was angry, I was almost glad that he'd ran away at times. I told myself that whatever he was going through served him right for fleeing. But not this. Not relapsing again because I hadn't helped.

"Did he take any drugs?" I have to ask. I have to know.

The doctor shakes his head, "Karessa stayed by his side to make sure he didn't. She says he had some alcohol, but that was all."

I sigh. I don't know who this Karessa is but I'm eternally grateful for what she did for Roger. If she hadn't been there for him, who knows what would've happened? I know how hard it is to get him out of depression. Depression and withdrawal is even harder.

"I'll leave you alone. But if anything happens, call me." The doctor says, walking out the room.

It's like being in a room with a dead body. Roger shows no signs of movement, of being alive at all. But the machines beep steadily and his chest rises ever so slightly.

Me and Collins sit in the chairs. We sit for hours. It's been so long since I've seen Roger, and now that I've found him, I don't know what to do. He looks nothing like the man I love or like anyone I know. I wish I could tell myself that this was a film, the burns are all makeup and his face isn't really melted like that.

But I can't because this is him. I'm waiting. In the movies, the body twitches and the eyes open and then they kiss. The person in hospital always wakes up when everyone thinks they won't.

But he just lies there and I let the tears roll down my face. Collins cries too and we hug each other and don't bother trying to use comforting words. Because we've found our friend. We've come all this way to see him. But he's not found us. He can't see us, and we don't know if he ever will.

Hours pass. The doctor comes by to check up. And then leaves. Nothing about Roger's condition is changing. He isn't even fighting his wounds. It's like he's giving up, not even making an effort to survive.

How dare he do this? After all we've done to find him, to get here. And now he can't even be bothered to find the strength to beat this, to see us again. I just want to hear his voice one more time, see his eyes or his smile.

This is the easy part! Why won't he just wake up? He has it in him, I know he does. So, why doesn't he just prove me right? Why does he not move?

I want to shake him. I want to slap him until he opens his eyes and sees me. I want to yell until he has no choice but to hear me and let me in.

He stays still. He looks like a stranger. He looks dead.

He stays like that all night. He stays like that until we're told that visiting hours are over and we should find a hotel to spend the night in.

A hotel, just like the one that burnt down with Roger inside.

"Can I just speak to him before we go?" I ask one of the nurses.

She smiles sympathetically and nods, walking out into the corridor with Collins.

His hand is warm. Hot. His skin feels like it's still on fire as I grab one limp hand in mine. I can't look at the mangled mess of burns that is his face, can't look at what I've done to him. I focus on the bedsheets and on the beeping of the monitors.

"You can do this." I whisper, tears falling again, "You can get out of this."

I swallow hard, my voice cracking with the tears, "I've found you. I'm here now. It took me too long to see it, but I haven't been living. I pushed you to the side and put work in front. I've been horrible and I'm so sorry."

My eyes are stinging and my mouth is dry. He needs to hear me. He needs to wake up and listen to me. I need him to come back so I can apologise and so I can start living again.

"I remember that night." I say, "I remember your song. I'm going to keep coming back here until the day comes when you can sing it again for me. I won't give up on you this time."

I lean forward, shut my eyes, and press my lips to the flaky skin of his burnt forehead.

"I love you."

...

Roger's in a coma. That's what we've been told. One night in a hotel turned to one week and then to two. During the day, me and Collins explore Santa Fe - the place Angel dreamed of living in - and admire how different it is to New York.

I've been recording interviews with some of the locals, asking them how it made them feel to see Roger playing his guitar for them. They all describe how alive it made them, how happy. They always end with telling me they hope he gets well. What I don't say is that it'll take more than hope.

We watch the sun setting here each night and I hate it. The sunset is a display here for everyone to watch. What happened to those private moments me and Roger shared on the roof? I don't know how he coped so long with this fake sunset.

And then we go to the hospital. It's so surreal. All this time searching, now we've found him but he's just out of reach. Hearing stories about a woman I've never met who apparently cares for him so much. Cares for him more than I do? Has he replaced me out here?

The machines beep still and that's enough for now. It's the best I can get.

Every time I visit, I have little hope of him actually waking up. I'm so used to it now. Sit and cry and hold his peeling hand. Talk to him even though he's deaf to the world. The beeping is all that grounds me in the hospital room.

I visit and I wait for the day when Roger will feel my hand holding his.

I don't know what I'd do if he woke up. Cry, scream, laugh? All three? I'd be so shocked that I might reflexively hit him. Let's be honest, I'm so used to his lifeless body in that bed that I'm really not expecting anything else.

The hotel has a phone that we're allowed to use whenever we want. Me and Collins alternate calls every morning to Maureen and Joanne.

They catch us up on their lives, how they've moved in together again and are thinking of adopting a dog. They give their best to us and to Roger and we thank them. The calls with them are my small anchor to cling to in this battlefield.

The doctor keeps us updated. It's always the same: no significant change, steady heartbeat, still comatose, we'll alert you if there's anything new.

I'm getting sick of that.

Until one day, there is something new.

"We've been able to drain excess fluid from the lung and there's been an increase in the speed his heart is beating at. We're trying not to get too hopeful, but things might be looking up."

So, we visit. I hold Roger's now-scabbed over hand and I kiss his head and I tell him I love him. Just like every other time. But the machines are beeping differently and the doctor assures us that those are good noises.

He smiles as we leave and he tells us that Roger is on the way to recovery, and if we're lucky, he might be awake again soon. I start allowing myself to dream of the future and I even let myself talk to Collins about it.

"He's going to make it, isn't he?" I ask Collins as the sun sets.

He takes a swig of beer and continues to stare at the sky.

"You know, I'm starting to think he might." He whispers.

It's the first night I sleep well since we heard about the fire. I let Collins' words sink in and realise that this is the first time we've spoken positively about Roger's chance of survival. This is the first time we've got each other's hopes up.

Collins tells a tired Joanne that things are looking good. I find him crying and laughing into the phone.

When we get the call the next day - an excited doctor telling us that Roger's should be waking up this week - we hold each other and cry and thank God that our prayers were answered.

I thank Angel. I thank her for keeping Roger on Earth, for not coming down to take him to heaven. I thank her for letting him live. And I thank her for letting me know her, for giving me someone to talk to these past months.

Talking to her spirit has given me light. I don't know if she's been able to hear me, but she's made me feel safe and less alone.

I wish she could still be with us, but I'm glad that Roger's been allowed a second try. It would've been so easy for an angel to reach out and help him let go of life. But he's stayed, and now he might be back for good.

Every time I visit I hold my breath. I cry and I talk about the memories. I get out my camera and show Collins the old films and we both tell an unresponsive Roger about our current lives. I tell him that I'm going to quit working at Buzzline and focus on making my own film.

I can almost hear his voice. If he were awake, he'd sit up and tell me, "Finally. Took you long enough to see she was the wicked witch. Now we can enjoy being dirt broke together."

And then I'd slap him for being a bitch. And kiss him, because that's something I've been waiting too long to do.

We wait and we wait. Every time I see him lying in that bed, a small husk of burnt flesh, the guilt hits. I want to punish myself for indirectly doing this to him. But then at night I dream and in my dreams I see Angel and she tells me that Roger won't blame me.

It's almost the end of the week. I'm starting to doubt the doctor's announcement that this week will see the end of the coma. But Collins is still full of life and he seems to believe that the doctor was right. I don't have the heart to bring him down with my miserable ideas.

Maybe I should try being like him. Maybe I should trust the doctor. It's just so hard when all I can see is the man I love breathing through a machine, burnt all over, so thin he looks dead already. Each word I utter to his lifeless body is another little crack forming inside me.

His eyes are so tightly shut that it seems they could never open. I wonder, if they were to, would they be the same eyes I know so well. The eyes that have watched me from missing posters since he left, that have met with mine as they gazed out my camera.

Roger's hand gets warmer every time. His chest moves more visibly. He starts to look more alive.

Whatever hole he's been stuck at the bottom of, he's now starting to crawl back out. Now it's just a matter of time, of sitting and waiting until we get the phone call.

The phone call comes two days later.

"You might want to come by. He's waking up."

Time seems to stop and before I know it, I'm standing in front of the hospital. Collins takes my hand in his and gives me a small smile.

"It's all going to be fine." He says quietly.

I wasn't aware I was crying until I feel my body shaking. Collins pulls me into his chest and hugs me. This has to be a dream. There's no way this is real. Things have gone so horribly wrong until now that I refuse to believe that they're finally going right.

I'll wake up soon and I'll be devastated because this dream felt so real and I really thought that I was going to see Roger again properly.

"I just can't believe that he's back." I whisper into his coat, my tears falling onto the fabric.

The doctor bursts out the door, his face lit up. I think that over time, as he's got to know me and Collins more and more, he's stopped seeing Roger as a result and now sees him as a life. Because when I first saw this doctor, I would never have thought he'd be this happy for us.

I've started to think he really does care about us and really does want Roger to survive, just so he can see us together.

"Hurry!" He says, as I wipe my eyes.

I don't think I've ever moved so fast in my life.

...

So, here we are again. Back in this room. Surrounded by beeping and buzzing and white walls and chemical scents. Sat on the little plastic chair, watching the man who no longer needs tubes to help him breathe.

Me and Collins aren't talking. In this position all over again, with no words that can suit the situation. What is there to say when your best friend and maybe more, who's been missing for almost two months, is about to wake up from a coma?

I stare down at my lap. It's easier that way. If I look up at Roger, I'll be obsessively searching for a sign of movement and panicking if I can't see any. If I look down, I can be calm while waiting and still get excited when he starts to move.

If.

There's no guarantee. The doctor told us that he can't promise anything, but that it's looking extremely likely that the odds are in our favour today. He told us to have faith that Roger will wake up, but not to pin everything to it.

Just in case.

I'm writing out a speech in my head. What do I start with? Should I save the love confession until the end, or get it out first? Where does the apology go? What about telling him I remember the song?

I've lived my whole life reading from a script. But when the script is gone, everything falls apart. Life isn't a movie and sometimes unexpected things happen and the script goes up in flames.

So to speak.

Fire isn't always literally involved. We just got very unlucky.

The thing is, without a script I'm not sure what to say. What can you say that does justice the things you feel when someone wakes up from something like this?

"Oh God..."

Collins' voice is so quiet but so unsettling. I don't want to look up. Something must be going wrong.

"My God..."

I move my head up slowly. And I'm crying immediately. Roger's eyes are opening, slowly, but they're still opening. And as they do, I see the green that I've missed so much, that I was worried I'd never see again.

I see the eyes of the man I love.

His eyes open and he sees us. For a minute, I'm certain that he doesn't recognise us. I remember what we were told about his breakdown. Does he know who we are anymore?

I don't think I'd be able to live in a world where Roger didn't remember me.

But then his cracked, dry lips pull up into the smallest smile, and his eyes stare at me with familiarity, with knowing.

My heart's stopped beating. I don't know what to do. Where's the doctor when I need him?

Collins acts for me, jumping from his seat and sobbing as he stands next to the bed. I know he wants to hug Roger, but thinks better of it. The thing is, I now know that he'll have plenty of chances to do that when we get out of here.

"You scared us boy!" He says, firmly but fondly, his hands trembling.

Roger laughs weakly. His face is the same but different. It's a wasteland of burns and bruises and is something that I should never have seen. But it's him, a broken, near dead version yes, but still him.

"No more running now." Collins says.

"Okay." Roger's voice is scratchy and rough and it sounds like he needs to drink something. But it's a voice I know. It's a voice I love.

Collins walks away from the bed, back to where I stand awkwardly. He nudges me with his hand and nods his head. The smile is warm despite the tears that mask it.

"I'm going to tell the doctor that he's awake." He says.

Roger's eyes continue to watch me. They're dimmer than they should be, but they're still alive as they dart all over my body. This is more than I could've hoped for, just to see him again.

"Mark." He says hoarsely.

I nod.

"This isn't real." He whispers, "It can't be. You can't be here."

His eyes are wide and scared and all I want to do is reach out and hold him. But he's hurt and he's fragile and who knows what will break him?

"I am." I say, my voice cracking.

"No." He shakes his head, "No."

Roger holds his head in his hands and I can hear his quick breathing. He keeps shaking his head again and again and I don't know what I can do. I'm so useless, stood here dumbly while he struggles with his own thoughts.

"I'm hallucinating again." He says, looking at me again with shiny eyes, "I'm mad."

"No." I say, "I'm really here."

Something seems to connect in his head because suddenly he's crying. I don't know if it's the desperation in my voice, but something's made him believe me. It's like he sees me for the first time, staring widely through tears, a small smile, and this look of shock and joy on his face.

"How did you find me?"

"Collins did." I say, "He saw a report on the fire on TV, and when they showed your picture-"

My voice dies in my throat as I'm hit by what's going on. He's back. I've got him back. He isn't dead. He's alive and he's talking to me. My thoughts are jumbled and I don't know which to focus on. This moment is so huge that it's all going over my head, I'm detaching again.

I can't process these things.

"Mark." He says again, his voice a razor blade, "I'm sorry for-"

"No." I say, "I'm sorry for making you leave."

He laughs, a laugh that reminds me of all the nights we shared on the roof, all the days exploring New York when we were young and fascinated with the world.

"You didn't make me leave." He says, looking down, "I left because I was scared."

"Scared?" I ask quietly.

"Of dying. Of you seeing me die." He looks up again and his eyes are full of unshed tears, "And now look at me. I almost died because I left."

We fall into silence for a minute, only interrupted by the sounds of the machines.

"It was like Angel all over again." I say finally, "Walking into a hospital."

"I know, I'm sorry-"

"I thought you were dead!" I shout. My hands are grabbing my hair and my glasses are clouded with tears.

"So did I!" He says. And when I look into his eyes, I break.

He starts to cough, this horrible, rattling noise. I start to panic. The doctor said his lungs were clear, but was he wrong? Is Roger about to die in front of me, the very thing he ran away to avoid?

The coughing shakes him, his too-small body jerking violently with each one. Tears fall from his frightened eyes and his hands reach out, shaking so much that they can barely stay straightened.

His hands find mine. Mine - sweaty and clammy. His - suddenly cold, covered in blisters.

I squeeze his hand tightly, just like Collins did for me earlier. I can't hug him like I want to, but I can offer comfort this way. All I want to do is pull him against me and stroke what's left of his hair. I want to tell him that it's okay, that I'm not angry anymore, that I love him.

But I settle for holding his hand.

He stops coughing, slumping down in the bed. His eyelids droop, and he fights to open them again, but it doesn't work. His hand in mine is heavy and I can tell that if I let go, it'd drop down to his side.

"Mark." He says weakly, his lips moving slowly, as if it's the hardest thing he's ever done.

"I'm here." I say.

My heart's racing. Is this it? Is he about to slip away? Will he go out like this; a shadow of the person he should be?

He can't. He's got this far. He needs to live. For me. For Collins. For Angel.

"I should tell you," He whispers, his voice exhausted and dying, "The song was for..."

"I know." I say, my tears dripping onto the bed. My free hand clutches at the sheets, taking it out on them. This can't be the end. We need a future together, a happy one.

"I should tell you." I say softly, "I didn't mean to stop..."

"I know." Roger says, the words coming out as a tired breath.

He forces his eyes open one final time, the green looking so weak as the last of the light flickers out and dies. Just like the candle that saved him, just like the fire that destroyed him.

And those bony arms pull me down to his level, so close that I can feel the warmth of his breath, see the detail of the burns. His eyes are shut now but his lips start to open.

"I love you." He says.

I lie down on the bed next to him and let myself cry. The heart monitor beeps beside me, and I don't even register the fact that it's still steady. I sink into my pain and I let it take over me.

The finality of his words is what kills me.

"I love you too." I whisper.

The beeping is normal. The machines pump oxygen into Roger's lungs. Though I don't see it now, the machine is the only reason he survives.

I turn over and I press a kiss to his forehead. So familiar. Maybe one day, I'll be able to do that when he's conscious. But there are a lot of maybes in my mind, and I can't let myself get too dependent on them.

For now, I let Roger shut his eyes and fall back into a coma. I let him slip out of my reach again because I know that this isn't the last time I'll see his eyes.

This moment is not our last.


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys this is it!

ONE YEAR LATER

Roger's P.O.V

"Close on Roger, still here and still a pain in the ass."

Mark holds the camera in my face and I swat it away.

"Yeah, that's what you said last night." I say nonchalantly.

He blushes so hard and I double over laughing. While he's stuttering out incoherent sentences, I take the camera out his hands and start to film him.

"Close on Mark." I say, making my voice higher in a terrible impression of him, "Who now feels awful for being so mean to his lovely boyfriend."

He looks at me sceptically.

"Come on." I say, "You know you love me."

I pull him over and snuggle my head into his neck, wrapping my arms around his waist. The camera's held high in one hand, lifted up enough for me to be able to train the lens on the two of us.

I humour Mark's obsession with filming. I understand where it comes from, of course. It'd be impossible not to yearn to preserve these beautiful moments, when he knows that we're both on borrowed time here.

We know that this isn't permanent. We know that there isn't a long-term plan for us. We know that every time I wake up is a small miracle, every extra day is a blessing from greater beings. I'm grateful for every second I have down here, because who knows which will be my last?

This isn't to say I'm ill. I'm actually a lot healthier than I have been in a long time. I haven't deteriorated and my CD4 cells have been doing okay. It's been a while since the last health scare.

But I can't let myself hope I'll be okay. I know that this will kill me, and probably soon. I may be going through a good patch now, but that's surely just leading up to another big drop. Because when HIV lives in your body, there's no such thing as good luck. The sun has to set at some point, and the rain must start to fall.

I don't tell Mark these things. He worries about me enough anyway. Besides, we both know how our relationship will end. We both know what's going to happen at some point.

We don't talk about the future. We talk about the past a lot, memories of Angel and of us when we were younger. But never the future. The future is frightening, it means me dying and leaving him behind to pick up the pieces of his life without me.

I hope that the future we dread waits as long as it possibly can. But I know that my time will run out and that I can't fight life anymore.

There was a time when I wanted to see Angel again. I was ready for my pointless existence to come to an end. But now, I have things here for me. I have Mark and I have Collins and the family that we're starting to rebuild.

Thinking about the future means thinking about them living when I'm gone. Because, if I'm being brutal, there will come a day when only Mark, Joanne and Maureen are left.

So, instead I think of the past and the present. The present is a life better than one I could imagine last year. We're still cold and hungry, but we're happy. Our family is healing.

Collins is still here. He lives in the loft with us, but is set on trying to find a new teaching job. What me and Mark don't say is the fact that he finds it harder each day to get up the stairs. We know he doesn't have much time left, but if I was to tell him, I know what he'd say.

He'd tell me that dying is okay. That he's afraid but he's getting ready for it. He'd tell me that he's had more than his fair share of life and that his life has been fucking great because of the people in it. And he'd say that dying means he can see Angel again.

But when he's gone, will I be able to block out my worries? His absence will make it suddenly real. I won't be able to ignore that soon, that will be me. Soon I'll be dead too.

But Collins doesn't want me worrying. He lives in the present too. He sits with me when Mark goes out to film and he tells me that Angel would be so proud of where we all are, that he can't wait to kiss her again.

Maureen and Joanne come over sometimes. They're married now, no more cheating. They live on the other side of town with their dog Elsie and are thinking about adopting children.

Their relationship always amazes me. Leave it to Mark to fix something so seriously broken. The two are so happy together now, you'd never be able to tell how many times they've fallen out.

If I was an optimistic person, their relationship would prove to me that some things are stronger than pain, that love will last.

But I'm not an optimistic person.

Mimi's still living with Benny. I don't think things will ever be the same between us, but we're getting there. And now I see that Benny really is good for her; she's just back from the rehab he paid for and is ready to live clean - something I could never convince her to do.

As I said, our family is healing.

All of us meet up sometimes. We go down to the Life Cafe and we talk about the past and we laugh together. It isn't awkward anymore. We aren't keeping secrets, we aren't fighting. We're living.

We're keeping our promise to Angel and we're living every minute of our lives.

I've sang Mark his song more times than I can count. Yet, every time I play those chords, he starts to cry and he kisses me. Each time I sing that song I remember what it took to get it perfect.

A dead girlfriend, a murderous disease, an ex and a broken heart, too many needles and tears, a bus that took me far away, a new life, nightmares, depression, a hotel, a fire, and one filmmaker.

I don't know what happened to Karessa. I don't know where she is or how she's doing. I don't know if she's still in Santa Fe or if she still owns a shop or if she still opens her doors every day hoping against hope to see me again.

I remember her words. All of them. I am forever indebted to her. After all, she's the one who dragged my body out of the burning hotel. She's the one who got me medicine and fought to keep me grounded.

Sometimes when I sit on the roof with Mark, singing his song as he films me, I think about Karessa. I wonder if she's watching the sunset too, wherever she is, and thinking about the man in the leather jacket who sang in the plaza in Santa Fe. The man she fell in love with and whose life she saved.

I hope that Karessa knows I'm okay. I hope she knows that I remember what she did for me. I hope she knows that I'll never forget her, her incessant flirting, her sweet smile, and her gentle hands as she brought me medicine.

Every time I look in the mirror, I'm faced with a reminder of her existence. The time in Santa Fe will never be able to leave me.

The burns don't hurt anymore. They're nothing more than white lines, just scars of a time gone by. They're just cold marks on my body that remind me that last year really did happen, that I brushed so close to death.

Things are starting to get back to normal. The pieces in the jigsaw of our lives are slotting back into place. I guess, things are even better than they were before.

Mark quit his job at Buzzline. He got a deal with a producer who wants to make his documentary a proper film. People are going to see the lives of the homeless and the impoverished in Alphabet City up on the big screen soon enough.

I go out onto the street sometimes with my guitar - the guitar, still scratched from my time in the hotel - and play. It's nothing like playing in Santa Fe. People here are too busy to stop and watch, and most of them scowl at me and kick my guitar case.

But occasionally I get a smile out of someone. And sometimes I get money thrown my way. It's not got the thrill and the glamour of singing in Santa Fe, a crowd dancing at my feet. But it's what Angel did, and it's living.

Most of the time, I can forget that this life is only short. But when I do remember, it hits hard. There's so much good here now, so many people I love and so many things to do. Some days it gets too much and I can't ignore the prospect of future. On those days, I curl up and hide.

Sometimes I find myself dreaming of a long life. I grow up with Mark, we get married and move out of the loft. We go somewhere nice, somewhere far away. He's a famous filmmaker and I'm a singer. We both achieve and we both love it. In my fantasies, I have many years to come.

In reality, I don't.

And if I think seriously, do I want to live forever? If I do, I'll have to see Collins and Mimi die. I'd rather go before them, even if Collins says that's unfair. He says that he's older, he's had more life than me, he should go first. He says that he had his love, but mine is only just beginning. He thinks I should have longer with Mark. I think he's accepting the fact that he's ready to see Angel again.

I focus on the past because otherwise, I find myself dreaming of the future I won't have. I find myself cursing my decisions, hating past me for using that needle with April, for getting sick. If I'd been more sensible, I'd have a life here with Mark.

We're living in an hourglass. My sand is trickling away and there's nothing I can do to make it last longer. When I grab at it, it just slips through my fingers.

Mark knows and he doesn't care. I've told him so many times that being with me is only going to break his heart one day. He says it doesn't matter, that we'll just have to live every moment as our last, seize the day and all that.

I know he's scared. How could he not be? But I also know that he'll have good things when I'm gone. He'll have Maureen and Joanne to look after him. And he'll have me and Angel and Collins and maybe even Mimi watching over him from above.

I've had those conversations with Joanne. Those tearful ones where I made her promise to make Mark happy when I die. I told her that he has to keep living, and I understood the desperation Angel had faced when she told me and Mark that same thing.

I've done all I can to help him in the future. Now the only thing I can do is enjoy the present.

I live here and now. I live for Mark, for the ever-fading Collins, for the memory of Angel, for Maureen, for Joanne, for their dog and their future child, for Mimi, for Benny, and even for Karessa - the girl who gave me the chance to live.

Life is fleeting and it can be over before you know. I used to wish for that day. But now I see that life is worth it. Life is full of great things that can make it even harder when you know you need to let go.

I know that when my time comes, I won't be ready. I'll never be ready to leave Mark alone, to take Angel's hand and follow her up to heaven for real.

That's why I don't think about it.

"Close on Roger," Mark says, and I wave at the camera, "Finally living by Mimi's credo - no day but today."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually started writing this in november 2019, wrote the first 2 chapters and then gave up. i'd had it with this book. about a month ago, i decided to write chapter 3. since then, i've ended up finishing the whole thing! i can't express how it feels and how proud of myself i am for seeing this through! i never could've imagined finishing this. thank you for everyone who's been reading it. comments are one of the things that have encouraged me to keep going. i'm going to be starting a new rent fanfiction called "behind the scenes" very soon, so it'd be awesome if any of you guys wanted to read that!   
> love you all   
> -angel


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